


Cinder and Smoke

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, And good times had by all, Blacksmith Bucky, First Time, Horses, M/M, OC death, Pining, Romani Bucky, Sheriff Steve, Smut, Western, about damn time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9201059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “They say there’s no law in Parasapa. Is that true?”





	1. Parasapa

**Author's Note:**

> My first Historical au!  
> Parasapa doesn't exist, but there were many mining towns formed in the Black Hills territory (that would eventually become part of South Dakota)
> 
> Many thanks to Krycekasks for mutual flailing over our beloved Luis, to DoubleOhWh00 for checking over my horses and the fabulous Eidheann for poking at my words and telling me when I done good
> 
> Come find me on tumblr, where I obsess over the knife fight from Winter Soldier and the wellbeing of my ferrets [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

The damned horse tosses its head, thrashing its tail as it skitters across the steep mountain path. Steve bites back a curse and grips the reins as he tries to get the infernal creature under control. It flattens its ears back, lowering its head and Steve digs his knees in, wrapping an arm around the horse’s neck. If it throws him off here, he’ll probably end up tumbling into a ravine.  
Luis, the _vaquero_ riding on the edges of the caravan, comes trotting over on his horse, a sweet tempered dappled grey mare that Steve may harbour the occasional moment of jealousy over.  
Luis guides his horse between Steve and the mountain paths perilous edge, reaching over and grabbing the reins. He clucks his tongue and mutters soothingly in lilting Spanish until the horse settles down to an easy trot.  
“Thank you,” Steve says awkwardly, sitting up straight in the saddle and taking back the reins when the damned horse seems less inclined to kill them both.  
“No problem, _hombre_ ,” Luis says cheerfully. “She’s _bonita_ , what’s her name?”  
Luis reaches over to pat the horse, who whickers affectionately at him.  
“Uh. Horse,” Steve offers.  
Luis laughs, sitting back in his saddle. His horse keeps pace with Steve’s, as leisurely and easy going as her rider. “She’s a city horse though, yeah?”  
“Yes, we’ve come from New York.”  
Luis sucks air between his teeth. “That’s a long way, hombre. You been riding for, what? A month now?”  
Steve nods. The horse had been a parting gift leaving New York. He had never had much luck with horses, and this one was no different. Every goddamned day that went by he got himself bitten or kicked by the blasted creature. He had hoped that time and travel would improve their relationship, but all it did was give him the creeping suspicion that the horse had stopped biting him out of resentment or anger and now did it for the sheer amusement of watching him yelp.

Luis gives him a surprisingly shrewd look. “Must be kind of a shock for her, going from a city to this.” He turns to look ahead, and Steve follows his gaze past the cluster of wagons and horses ahead of them, along the steep, narrow track that winds its way through the dense forests of the Black Hills and skirting around the edge of the mountain. In the distance, the well worn path zigzags down the mountainside and disappears in a cluster of tents and wooden buildings, their destination.  
Steve takes a deep breath of thickly scented pine air. Safety in numbers, Sam had written. Find a caravan in Sioux Falls and stick with them, or you’ll pitch your dumb ass into a gulch and I’ll have to come deal with your sorry carcass.  
For all the frustrations of life on the road, of sticking with the shambling little wagon train of merchants and migrants travelling east, there had also been peace. The endless swathes of spruce and pine, the campfires sending sparks and embers into the velvet dark. He had spent his evenings in the gathering dusk hunched over his journal, sketching clusters of sharp-scented juniper and distant glimpses of Pronghorn seen from the road, and had felt something like peace. Now with the town squatting in the distant valley, he feels tension twisting in his gut.  
“First time here?” Luis breaks the silence.  
Steve nods, but doesn’t elaborate. Luis takes no offense, chattering about his youth spent herding cattle until the war ended, and suddenly everyone wanted to be a ‘cowboy’. He talks about the courier service he operates, pointing out his partner Scott behind them, a pleasant faced man wrapped in a red poncho, steering a tattered looking little covered wagon. Luis describes their business travelling from town to town, delivering mail and supplies and watching out for bandits and ‘Road agents’, highwaymen looking out for unprotected wagons or lonely travellers to kill and steal from.  
Steve asks is Luis misses his old way of living.  
Luis shrugs. “Can’t run cattle all your life.”  
Steve had read about cowboys before travelling west, ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok and Buffalo Bill, and half expected to feel disappointment at the reality. But Luis was relentlessly good humoured and filled with stories, and Steve hardly noticed the time passing as they made their way down the hillside until Luis flashed a bright smile and pointed ahead.  
“Parasapa,” he calls out, pointing to the canvas tents clustered around the road ahead.

The wagon train makes its meandering way into camp, following the path of a fast flowing river. The dirt track at their feet becomes wider, the muddy ground churned up with horse's hooves and wagon wheels  
Steve keeps close to Luis’ side, trying not to stare as they pass through a cluster of dirty canvas tents. As they get closer to the town itself stalls start appearing either side of the road, rough structures made of lashed together posts and a flimsy piece of board as a tabletop, selling shots of whiskey and mining equipment, games of Find the Lady and Cup and Ball all jostled together. A cacophony of voices fill his ears, hawkers and traders, arguments and fistfights between drunks and merchants.  
The stalls become larger, more sturdily built, as they travel further into camp, a shanty town of butchers and grocers and gun merchants, men selling bars of soap and newspapers and hot pies wander between the stalls, shouting their wares. The clumsy wooden stalls give way to timber framed buildings, still under construction, men desperately panning for gold around the foundations as the workman build around them.  
The road forks ahead and Luis clicks his tongue at his horse as she comes to a halt. He points to the left where a strange looking building stands just off the road. The walls are built with stacked stones in a complex, interlocking pattern, the pieces slotted so tightly together that it doesn’t seem to matter that no mortar has been used to affix them. The roof is a patchwork of corrugated galvanised steel, the misshapen pieces overlapping. There is a wooden porch built onto the front of the building, a low bench to one side of the wooden door. To the left side of the building is a cleared area leading down to a fenced off paddock behind the property occupied by a handful of horses .  
“This is our stop,” Luis tells him.  
Steve takes a moment to admire the building, it’s rough hewn but well made. It looks like a home.  
“Is this yours?” Steve asks, and Luis bursts out laughing.  
“Nah, hombre. This is the Blacksmith.” He looks over at his partner steering their wagon into the clearing. “Barnes. He’s _mi amigo_.” Luis gives Steve an odd look, concerned and hopeful. “He’s good. Don't believe any of the shit people say about him, sí?”  
Steve nods. “I won’t,” he says somberly.  
Luis grins at him proudly. “Where you heading?”  
“Wilson's Hardware.”  
Luis points to the left hand fork. “That way, on your right. Can’t miss it.”  
Steve holds his hand out. “Pleasure to meet you, Luis.”  
“Pleasure’s all mine, hombre,” Luis tells him, giving his hand an enthusiastic shake before clicking to his horse and leading her down to the paddock.

Steve steers the damned horse toward the left turn, heading south of the river, and follows the line of timber buildings. Up ahead, sitting between the fork in the road in a manner that almost seems suggestive, is a red-painted two storey building. From the women positioned outside and their provocative clothing, he assumes it’s a whorehouse. Sam had warned him that such things were commonplace in frontier towns, but it was still unsettling to witness first hand.  
Wood framed two- and three-storey buildings cluster together on either side of the road, traders and prospectors milling around in front of them, the last few carts and wagons ahead hampered by slow moving pedestrians.  
He finally sees the sign for Wilson's Hardware, a large, well-built two storey building with a handsomely painted wooden sign, well situated in the island of businesses between the forked roads. Sam had written at great length about the corner location, as well as the convenience of having it right next to an alleyway connecting up the two roads. Steve would have to take his word for it, having no head for commerce, but Sam was happy, and had established himself as a competent and trustworthy businessman in town.

Steve manages to steer the damned horse to the storefront and dismounts, his boots sinking into the mud and spattering the cuffs of his Hendersons. The horse nips at his arm when he bends down to brush away the dirt and Steve lets out a yelp, straightening up and glaring, and getting a tail swish in response.  
Steve takes a step away from the damned creature, still keeping a tight grip on its reins and looks around the busy street outside the store until he can see a familiar charcoal grey porkpie hat.  
He calls out and the crowds part, and he sees his old friend.  
“Steve!” Sam calls out in delight, striding across the mud to grasp him by the forearms. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”  
Steve adjusts his hat, flinching away when Sam snatches at the wide brim.  
“Still a dandy, eh?” Sam teases.  
Steve snorts at him. “Speak for yourself,” he counters, plucking at the lapel on Sams coat.  
“Spruce up nicely, don’t I?” Sam gives him a quick turn, showing off his suit, a dark charcoal that looks almost black over a red waistcoat.  
Steve gives him an unconvinced look before chuckling. “Yeah, you’ll do.”  
“Yeah, you wish you looked this fine,” Sam mutters. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.”

Sam leaves the shop to his two employees, twin brother and sister with thick, European accents. The girl, pale faced with long, flaming red hair, is quiet and solemn. The boy is fast and sharp tongued, with a shock of grey hair. Sam introduces them as Wanda and Peter. He stows Steve’s saddlebags behind the counter and checks that the twins are okay without him before leading Steve back out onto the street, waving away his concerns. “They’re good kids, been with me a couple of months now. I trust them more than most other people around these parts.” Sam claps him on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get your horse stabled.”  
They cross the road, boots sinking into the mud, to the livery across the way, Steve leading the damned horse by the reins.  
“I take it you still have a hard time with horses?” Sam needles gently. Steve doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, tugging on the reins as the horse tries to pull him down into to mire.  
The ostler who runs the livery, a huge, barrel chested blond with the kind of relentless good cheer that wears on Steve after a while, is delighted to take the damned horse for a moderate fee. The blasted creature nuzzles up against the man as he leads it away.

Sam guides Steve along the edges of the road where it’s easier to walk, past the jailhouse sitting alongside the livery, and pointing out the three storey building opposite.  
“That’s the Main St Hotel, run by a fellow named Coulson. Also the place for food least likely to kill you,” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Or make you wish you were dead, y’know what I’m saying?”  
Steve chuckles and nods as they walk back down the road, passing the hardware store.  
“Next plot down from mine is the Doc,” Sam points out a single story building the other side of the alleyway that runs alongside the hardware store. “Dr Banner. Decent enough fellow, bit too fond of a drink.”  
Sam tips his hat at two elderly ladies walking past, dressed in New York fashion, one in rich bottle green, the other in a vibrant red gown that matches her lipstick, their grey hair pinned up in artful curls. “Ladies,” Sam offers in a flirtatious tone.  
The lady in green silk gives him a reproachful look. “Sam Wilson, behave yourself.”  
Sam holds up his hands placatingly. “I’d like you to meet my friend. Steve Rogers. Steve, this is Miss Angie Martinelli,” he gestures to the lady in green, who bobs a quick curtsey. “And this is Peggy Carter.” Peggy nods at him, her eyes sparkling. “Don’t trust either of them.”  
They laugh, and Peggy leans forward. “So you’re the new Sheriff?” she asks in a stage whisper.  
Steve flushes and make a noncommittal sound. “Nothing’s been decided yet,” he says quietly.  
Sam grins at him, knowing full well that Steve wouldn’t have made the journey if he wasn’t going to follow through with it. Steve touches the brim of his hat with a fingertip. “Ladies,” he says with a small smile. Peggy and Angie wish them a good evening and continue walking. He can just make out Angie snapping at Peggy to put her tongue back in her mouth, and pointedly ignores Sam sniggering.  
They walk past the shabby two storey building opposite the Doc. “That’s Maria’s. Cards and dice,” Sam notices the furrow in Steve’s brow. “She runs a tight operation, not too much trouble. At least if there is, she doesn’t let it spill onto the street.”

They walk to the fork in the road, and Sam points out the drystone building ahead that had drawn Steve’s interest on the way into town. “That’s the Smithy,” he glances around, hesitating before speaking. “He’s… grouchy.”  
Steve remembers what Luis said to him earlier, about not listening to what others had to say about the Blacksmith. “And?” he asks after the silence has dragged on too long.  
Sam shrugs. “The man’s got secrets, you can see it in his eyes. I don’t much trust a man with secrets.”  
Steve nods, but makes no comment. Sam points to the red painted building sat in the fork of the road.  
“The Red Room,” he announces with a sweep of his arm. “Owned and operated by Natasha Romanov.”  
“Romanov?” Steve remarks. He doesn’t comment on it being a woman owning and running the whorehouse, which seems unusual.  
Sam nods. “Yeah, Russian. She’s a firecracker, you’ll like her.”  
Steve flushes bright red and tugs the brim of his hat down. “Now, Sam..”  
They’d had this argument before. Sam pushing him to utilise the services certain women offer in exchange for a handful of dollars, and maybe loosen up a bit. The thought makes Steve’s blood run cold.  
Sam laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t mean like that,” Sam gives him a reassuring look. “You made yourself clear on that subject, and I know better than to push,” he shrugs. “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, anyway. Nat’s smart, she takes good care of her girls.”  
A sly smirk tugs at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “You like her,” he says quietly.  
Sam nods, open and without shame. “It’s hard not to like her, you’ll see.” He gives Steve a clap on the back. “C’mon.”

They take the right hand fork, and Sam points to a cluster of tents between the road and the river, packed close together. “That’s Chinatown.”  
Steve lets out a quiet sound of surprise. “Chinatown?”  
“Yeah. They mostly keep to themselves. There’s a laundry I think a few of the businesses in town use, a few butchers. Most of them are prospectors or miners, making money to send home. They keep to themselves.”  
Steve nods. “The rest of town take offense to their not spreading money around?”  
“Now and again. No one’s ever felt the urge to do something about it.” Sam gives Steve a look. “You leave them be, Steve.”  
“Sam…” Steve mutters, annoyed that his friend can read him so well.  
“You got any problems, you ask for May. Not that it’ll do much good.”  
“She doesn’t speak English?”  
Sam shrugs. “Do you speak Cantonese?”  
Steve gives an apologetic shake of his head and Sam waves it away, walking on.

The right fork road is more sparsely populated than on the left fork, lacking the street stalls and roaming traders of the high street. There are still two and three storey buildings either side of the road, though a little more spaced out. The central island between the fork is still busy with people walking to and fro, and Sam points out a large building butted up against the alley that leads to the Doc’s. The property is recently built and freshly painted, an ornate sign in red and blue reading ‘The Union’.  
“That’s Alexander Pierce’s place. Gambling, whiskey and women.”  
There is a man stood in the entrance of the saloon, the large red and gold doors thrown open wide. He’s dressed in a black and gold brocade waistcoat, and a burgundy velvet frock coat. He raises the cigar in his hand and calls out to Sam, who gives Steve a long-suffering look before leading the way over.  
“Sam, good to see you,” the man says, clamping his cigar between his teeth. “You’ve brought company.”  
“Mr Pierce, this is my good friend Steve Rogers,” Sam passes his hand in the air between the two. “Steve, this is Alexander Pierce.”  
Alexander holds out his hand. “Owner and proprietor of The Union.”  
“Good to meet you,” Steve says politely, shaking his hand.  
Alexander gives him a once over, and Steve feels an unpleasant urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg.  
“So, you’re the new Sheriff, I hear.”  
Steve shrugs. “Still haven’t made up my mind.”  
Alexander grins at him, predatory and sharp. “Still, let us hope you hold out longer than the last one.”  
Steve gives him an innocent look. “The last one?” he questions.  
Alexander looks between him and Sam. “Didn’t your friend tell you? In the, what has it been, a year?” Sam nods, his mouth set in a grim line. “In the year that the town has existed no Sheriff has lasted more than, what? Three months?”  
“What happened to them?” Steve asks, wide eyed.  
Alexander shrugs, pulling his cigar from between his teeth and waving it airily. “Who can say? They just…” he puffs out a cloud of smoke. “Vanished.”  
Steve grits his teeth. “Well, isn’t that a mystery,” he says tightly.  
Alexander smiles at him, sharp like a blade. “Isn’t it.”  
Sam takes a step between them before Steve does something stupid, wishing Alexander a pleasant evening as he gives Steve a firm push, nudging him back down to the road.  
“Pleasure to meet you,” Alexander calls after them. “Come by any time.”

They walk along in silence, Steve quietly seething. “It was him,” he growls.  
Sam shakes his head. “There’s no proof, Steve. Nothing to say they didn’t just pack up their things and take off in the night.”  
“But it was him?” Steve pushes.  
Sam hesitates, then grudgingly shakes his head. “There’s nothing either way, Steve. No body, no witnesses. Nothing.” Sam glances back at The Union. “A man like that isn’t gonna get his hands dirty. Maybe he’d offer money to a guy to do the dirty work for him, and that guy ends up dead in a river, and they call it a mining accident.”  
Steve shakes his head, looking disgusted.  
“Why did you ask me to come here, Sam?” he mutters, frustrated.  
Sam grins at him. “Because the entire Confederate Army couldn’t kill you, I don’t see one creepy saloon owner finishing the job.”  
Steve jerks to a halt. He stares at Sam, who raises his eyebrows, and Steve can’t help but laugh; a sharp, breathless bark. He shakes his head, rubbing his hand over his eyes.  
“Fair point,” he mutters.

They walk a little further to where the fork is connected by a short track, one headed southwest, the other heading east.  
Sam points to the southwest road, a heavy wooden bridge spanning the river and disappearing into the tree line. “The bridge road will take you further into the Black Hills, mostly used by prospectors headed out to their claims. The other road will get you to Fort Dakota.” He points back to the road behind them. “You took the long way from Sioux Falls on a wagon train, yeah?”  
“Yeah, I’d have been here a lot sooner if you’d let me take the back road.”  
Sam frowns at him. “You wouldn’t have got here at all, dumbass. You came via Belle Fourche, yeah?”  
Steve gives an affirming nod. The caravan had travelled from Sioux Falls to Belle Fourche, mostly fur trappers and tanners, it had smelt revolting. Then the rest of the caravan along with some newcomers, including Scott and Luis, had headed south past Spearfish to Parasapa.  
“If you gotta go anywhere, take someone with you, someone you trust. There’s road agents all round these parts, plus the Sioux ain’t too happy about us being here and might take a liking to your shiny blond scalp.” Sam swipes at his hat and Steve skips out of reach.  
“Gee, Sam. You’re really selling the place.” Steve grins.  
Sam tilts his head. “You need selling to?” he points to a two storey property across the way, its back porch overlooking the river. “That’s the Sheriff’s house.”  
Steve falters, staring across at the building. It has a decent sized yard with a front porch and a bench set under the eaves. The kind of building that should be filled with a family, a few chickens in the yard, a dog running around playing with the kids. Steve swallows, his throat suddenly dry.  
“It’s furnished already,” Sam adds. “Not much, but it’s got the basics.”  
Steve shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers.  
Sam gives him a worried look. “You don’t have to, but it’s yours if you want it.”  
He gives Steve a gentle pat on the shoulder. “C’mon, I need to introduce you to someone.”

Sam leads Steve into a bar opposite the road to the Black Hills. It’s a roughly built, single story building, unmarked by signs or billboards. Inside is an open space cluttered with tables and chairs. A man in the far corner plays piano while prospectors and traders drink whiskey and play cards. Sam walks up to the long wooden counter where a menacing looking, tall black man with a patch over one eye pours whiskey and growls at his patrons.  
“Nick,” he says by way of greeting. The man nods to him, pouring a shot of whiskey, which Sam accepts. “This here is Steve Rogers,” Sam nods over at Steve.  
“The man you were telling me about?”  
Sam nods and Nick holds up an amber glass bottle, giving it a shake. The contents slosh around, oily and viscous. “Drink?”  
Steve shakes his head. “I’ll take coffee, if you have it.”  
Nick snorts at him, but fetches a coffeepot from behind the counter and pours thick, tarry coffee into a tin mug before shoving it across the table. “Sorry if it’s not up to your usual standards,” he mutters, sarcasm in every word.  
Steve picks up the cup, aware of Nick's eyes on him. He swallows a mouthful, warm and bitter, and suppresses a shudder. “Thank you,” he manages to keep from coughing.  
“Sam tells me you were a Captain?” Nick comments.  
Steve nods. “Army of the Potomac.”  
“D’you see Bull Run?”  
Steve swallows another mouthful of coffee, bitter and sour. “Wish I hadn’t.”  
Nick hums to himself, and Steve can't shake the notion that he’s passed some kind of test.  
“So you’re looking to be the new Sheriff,” Nick says, pouring coffee into his own mug and taking a sip.  
Steve doesn’t answer, instead he tilts his head and fixes a stare on Nick. “They say there’s no law in Parasapa. Is that true?”  
Nick picks up the coffeepot and refills Steve’s cup. “In the Treaty of Fort Laramie a few years back, the Black Hills were signed over to the Lakota. But,” he shrugs, “There’s gold in the Black Hills.”  
“It’s an illegal settlement,” Steve realises.  
“No jurisdiction, so no Marshals, no trials, no due process.”  
Steve nods and takes a sip of coffee. “And you’re looking to change all that.”  
Nick pours himself more coffee. “We didn’t need a Sheriff at first. People just rubbed along and got on with their business. As the town grew, so did its problems.”  
Nick fixes Steve with a hard stare. “If you’re taking the job, you need both eyes open. Not one Sheriff so far has lasted more than a few months. Now maybe Sam here is right about you, maybe you’ll make it to the winter. Or maybe one morning you’ll have just up and disappeared like the rest of them.”  
Steve grits his teeth. “I don’t need the lecture, I know the risks.”  
Nick shrugs. “Most folks out here came for a reason, lawlessness is just one of them.” He shrugs, “Not everybody is evading the law. Some folks are just looking for a fresh start.” He gives Steve a knowing look. “I reckon present company included.”  
Steve wraps both hands around his cup. “You wouldn’t be wrong,” he confirms quietly.  
Nick refills Sams empty shot glass.  
“So, you taking the job?” Sam asks.  
Steve swallow's the last, bitter dregs of his coffee. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take the job.”


	2. Horseshoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She got a name?’ The Blacksmith growls, walking towards the damned horse.  
> Steve clears his throat, and resists the urge to tug his collar loose.  
> “Not really,” he says eventually. “Damned horse?”  
> The Blacksmith snorts, patting the damned horses neck. “She needs a name.”  
> Steve manages a nervous laugh. “Didn’t even know it was a she.”  
> The Blacksmith glances over at him, his blue eyes sparkling behind strands of dark hair.  
> “You didn’t check?” He asks, turning back to the horse.  
> “I. Uh. Respect her privacy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Bucky in this fic is Romanichal. No one can stop me from writing Romani Bucky!
> 
> If you want to spend far too much time imagining what you'd be wearing in the 1870's, check out this website https://www.westernemporium.com/western.php
> 
> Traditionally Blacksmiths do ironmongery and Farriers shoe horses, but as Bucky was raised with both Smithing and horses, he does both
> 
> Kushty grai - good horse

At Sam's insistence, Steve collects his saddlebags from the Hardware Store and moves into his new house, Sam bidding him goodnight on the front porch before leaving him to get settled in.  
Steve wanders from room to room, feeling cast adrift, like a ghost. The rustic, well-made furniture, the open rooms, the black iron stove, all make him feel like an interloper. Like a creature brought in from the wild that shivers in its decorative cage.  
It’s a house for a family, he thinks to himself as he leans on the back porch, staring down at the river. A wife and children, the walls echoing with their laughter. All the things he will never have.  
There is a master bedroom, a wrought iron bed pushed up against the far wall topped with a straw filled mattress. There is a fireplace in the exterior wall, the surround made with smooth, rounded river stones fitted together. The cast iron fireback has a design embossed on it, Steve bends down to brush his finger across the shape, a cartwheel.  
He takes off his overcoat, it’s a relief to shed the heavy, navy coloured wool from his shoulders, and lays it on the bed, twitching the coarse cloth into place so it lies flat. He rests his saddlebags against the foot of the bed, taking off his broad brimmed hat and dropping it on the mattress. He stretches and goes out to the backyard, where firewood is stacked up against the wall, sheltered from the rain by the eaves. He collects up an armful of cordwood and carries it back inside, kneeling in front of the fireplace and dumping the wood in a haphazard pile before setting a match to the kindling.  
He unfastens his gun belt, wrapping the supple leather around the two holsters and setting them on the bed. Despite all of Nick’s warnings, he doesn’t expect gunplay. Give it a few days, maybe he’ll start sleeping with a loaded pistol in his hand.

He unpacks his bags as the kindling catches and burns, a handful of books and pens, his journal, a few items of clothing, carefully folded, his heavy wool travelling blanket and toiletries. He tugs at the dark blond beard he has allowed to grow out during his journey west, and considers shaving. He had been clean shaven in New York, well-groomed and neatly pressed, as though a clean shirt and good boots could somehow erase the blood and cannon fire from his memories.  
He tugs at his mustache and decides to keep it for the time being.  
Steve fetches a chair from the kitchen table and places it in front of the crackling fire. He picks up his journal and a pencil, sitting down and making note of the events of the day, when the sky darkens the fire offers enough light to write by.  
When his eyes refuse to stay open, the page blurring in front of him, he strips off his jacket and vest, hanging them on the back of the chair, and fetches his travelling blanket from where it is neatly folded on the bed.  
The wool still smells like the sagebrush that had littered the camp of the previous night, where he’d rolled himself up in a bundle and dozed in front of the campfire. He wraps himself up in the scented wool and sits back down in his chair, gazing into the flames until he falls asleep.  
He dreams of smoke and ash and distant gunfire.

In the morning he starts to make a list of the things he needs. A coffee pot. Coffee. A fresh pencil. A bar of soap. He writes them down in his journal as the sun rises, the cold ashes in the fireplaces shifting and settling. He’s certain that the list should be longer, but can’t think of anything else he would need.  
There is a dusty chamber pot tucked under the bed, which he does not use. The outhouse at the far end of the yard is a short walk away, and though filled with spiders, they seem inclined to leave him alone and the feeling is very mutual. He fetches water from the river and washes his face and hands with his last sliver of soap, putting on his vest and jacket before combing his hair.  
He straps on his gunbelt, the holsters a familiar weight resting on his hips, and as he rubs his thumb over the handle of his pistols, as if to reassure himself of their presence.  
He trails his fingers across his overcoat. It had kept him warm at nights up in the hills, but the town is set in a valley, and in the late summer heat it is too damned hot to be wearing a heavy overcoat, so he leaves it laid out on the bed. He feels off balance without its weight across his shoulders, like a suit of armour.

The knock at the door jolts him out of his thoughts, Sam come to drag him off to breakfast. He puts on his hat, brushing his fingers across the brim and squaring his shoulders, ready to face the world.  
He opens the front door and Sam grins at him, broad and bright and infectious.  
“You survived the night, then?”  
Steve looks down at himself. “Seems so.”  
Sam laughs and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, breakfast.”  
Steve pulls the door closed, turning the heavy metal key in the lock.  
Sam leads the way down from the porch and the few steps across the front yard. There is a neat fence, hip height, running around the property. The gate has iron hinges and a latch. Steve finds his fingers trailing across the gate for a moment, and feels a familiar design embossed into the front plate; a cartwheel.  
Main St Hotel is within sight of the house, across the road. They walk over, Sam patting Steve on the chest and asking how he likes the house.  
“I like it just fine, Sam. Quit asking.” Steve mutters.

The Main St Hotel is a neat, well-kept three storey building run by the quiet, dark haired man positioned behind a short counter just inside the doorway.  
“Morning, Phil,” Sam says cheerfully, taking off his porkpie hat.  
The man gives him a pinched smile. “Sam.” He looks over at Steve and holds out a hand in greeting. “You must be the new Sheriff. Phil Coulson, pleasure to meet you.”  
Steve takes his hand and gives it a shake. “Steve Rogers, the pleasure is all mine.”  
Phil shuffles the paperwork in front of him awkwardly. “You two will be wanting breakfast? No charge, of course.”  
“Breakfast,” Steve answers quickly. “But I would prefer to pay.”  
Sam rolls his eyes, but Phil looks startled, but pleased. “By all means.”  
Steve waves away Sam’s insistence on paying for his share and hands over the money, and Phil directs them to the dining room, cluttered with tables and chairs. In the near corner is a table laid out with a pot of coffee, a tureen of porridge, a stack of cold toast and a chafing dish filled with fried eggs and bacon. Plates and mugs are stacked at the far end, an assortment of cutlery stuffed into one of the cups.  
Sam takes a couple of plates, passing one over to Steve. “The food’s not bad, better than army rations anyway.” Sam gives him a smirk. “That’s not saying much.”  
Steve nods, pulling the ladle out of the tureen and giving it a hesitant sniff. He settles for eggs and toast, along with a cup of coffee.  
They take a seat by the window, Steve setting his hat on the empty chair beside him. Sam’s thunks down his plate piled with eggs and bacon and starts eating.  
A worn-looking man with a head of greying curls, wearing a dark green suit, frayed around the cuffs and collar, looks up from the next table. He wears wire framed glasses perched on the end of his nose.  
“Sam,” he says, his voice soft and reserved.  
Sam gestures to Steve. “Morning, Doc. This here is Steve Rogers.”  
“The new Sheriff? Pleasure to meet you,” the Doc raises his coffee cup in salute. “Here’s hoping you make it to Christmas.”  
Steve looks to Sam for guidance, but he just shrugs his shoulders.  
“Well… Thank you for that,” Steve says finally, and raises his cup to the man in return.  
That seems to satisfy him, and he goes back to his meal.

They watch as other customers come and go, both residents at the hotel and townsfolk in search of a good meal. Steve see’s Scott loitering in the doorway and calls him over. Scott loads up his plate, shoves an extra slice of toast in his mouth and comes over to join them, sloshing coffee on his hands as he weaves through the tables.  
“Sam, this is Scott. We journeyed together from Belle Fourche.”  
Scott holds out his hand in greeting, notices it’s dripping with tepid coffee and wipes it on the leg of his pants. Sam gives him the slightest shake of his head and Scott doesn’t offer his hand again.  
“Good to meet you,” Sam tells him, both hands firmly wrapped around his coffee cup.  
“Scott runs a courier service with his partner Luis,” Steve explains.  
Sam brightens at the name. “The fastest mouth in the Midwest? Yeah, I know Luis. Business good?”  
Scott nods, shoving bacon into his mouth and chewing furiously. “Yeah, just stopped off overnight and now we’re headed south to Cheyenne. Just waitin’ on Luis to finish up a few things.”  
“You guys taking the backroad?” Sam frowns.  
“Yeah, but Luis is handy with a pistol.” Scott shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth.  
“I guess if all else fails he can talk them to death,” Sam jokes.  
“You guys pass through here often?” Steve asks, letting Sam’s comment slide.  
Scott swallows and waves his fork in the air. “Every few weeks. A month at most.”  
“Good to know,” Steve murmurs.  
Scott waves a forkful of eggs at him. “You need anything picking up or bringing down, just say the word.”  
Steve thanks him and promises to keep it in mind, and the table falls silent as Scott rushes through what’s left of his breakfast. Steve wonders if he eats so fast because he’s in a hurry, or if it’ because it’s been a while since he last had a decent meal.  
Scott gulps down the last of his coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
“Okay, I’d better take off. See you in a few?”  
Steve nods. “Take care of yourself, Scott, send my regards to Luis.”  
They watch him head out the door and jog down the road. Steve’s stomach cramps in sympathy at the sight.  
“That is one nervous little man,” Sam mutters.  
“Spent time in prison?” Steve asks.  
Sam nods. “Time that wasn’t his to serve, I recon.”

They finish their breakfasts and walk across the road to the Hardware Store, only to be accosted by the Ostler at the neighbouring livery on the way.  
“Congratulations are in order, I hear you are the new lawman,” the blond beams at Steve and he resists the urge to take a step back. “Thank you, Mr Odinson.”  
“Your steed is a fine beast, but alas requires a service I do not provide,” the Ostler tells him apologetically.  
Steve stares at him for a moment. “I’m… Sorry?’  
“My skills are wide and varied, sir. But the working of ore is not chiefest amongst them.”  
Steve looks over at Sam, who takes pity on him. “Your horse needs a shoe.”  
Steve blinks a few times, then pulls himself together. “Thank you. I’ll see to it once I’ve finished speaking with Sam here.”  
“If you are otherwise obtained I might tend to the matter for you?” The Ostler offers, hands spread out wide.  
Steve shakes his head. The damned horse is his responsibility. “I’ll take care of it. Can it walk?”  
The Ostler looks at him incredulously. “The beast is not lame, only in need of iron.”  
Steve gives him a hesitant nod. “I’ll take care of it.”  
The Ostler wishes them both a good day and strides back to the livery.  
“Did he.. have some kind of accident?” Steve asks Sam.  
Sam shakes his head. “Maria asked him about it once. Said he taught himself English on the boat over here by reading. Found a book written in whatever Viking language he speaks and English, figured it out from there.”  
“What was the book?” Steve frowns.  
“Shakespeare.”  
Steve snorts as Sam leads the way to the Hardware Store, nodding to Peter who is sat guarding the door.  
“Any trouble?” Sam asks the boy.  
“No trouble at all,” Peter pats the shotgun laid out across his lap.  
Sam gives him a slap on the shoulder. “Go get some rest, kid.”  
They watch the kid go inside and deposit the shotgun behind the store counter before heading up the stairs to one of the storerooms.  
“You pay him to guard the store at night?” Steve asks, surprised.  
“Yeah, well locks can be broken,” Sam mutters. “They got a room upstairs to sleep in, they help in the store. Wanda is pretty good with numbers so she’s learning the books.”  
Steve smiles at him. “Still taking in strays?”  
Sam gives him a shove. “Shut your damn mouth,” he laughs.

Steve walks across to the livery, nodding mutely as the Ostler leads him to the stable where the damned horse is being kept, talking cheerfully while Steve tries to grasp what he’s saying. The horse nuzzles at the Ostlers hand as he unlatches the stable door, and stands patiently while he fits her bridle.  
“Will you be needing the saddle?” he asks, fixing the last buckle in place.  
Steve shakes his head. “No. No, thank you.”  
The horse bares its teeth and shakes her head, and Steve is pretty sure that it’s laughing at him as the Ostler offers him the reins. He gives them a tug, and the horse doesn’t move, lifting it’s head and jerking back sharply when Steve gives the reins an impatient tug. Steve manages to keep his feet, and the Ostler roars with laughter.  
“Go easy on your master,” he chides, giving the horse a slap on the rump that gets it moving at last. “Cunning and wilful, this one,” he tells Steve.  
“Certainly is,” Steve mutters, leading the damned creature out of the livery and onto Main St.

The horse is happy enough to walk down the street, and Steve leads her past the Hardware Store, pointedly ignoring Sam laughing at him as he goes by. He keeps walking past the Doc’s place, nodding to people who lift their hats to him and wish him good day. Clearly word has already spread about the new Sheriff.  
As they reach the fork in the road the horse tugs at it’s reins, inexorably pulling Steve away from the road. He’s too busy yanking on the reins and having his pleading to behave fall on deaf ears to notice where they are until an amused voice calls out to him.  
“Morning, Sheriff. First one’s on the house.”  
He looks up to see a woman dressed in black, her painted red lips quirked with amusement. Blood red curls tumbling over her shoulders as she leans on the porch of the Red Room. Behind her the open doors reveal a handful of women in indecent clothing,  
The woman lounging on the porch raises an eyebrow at him. “See anything you like?”  
Steve flushes and shakes his head “No, thank you ma’am.”  
“Natasha,” the woman smiles at him. “Owner and proprietor of the Red Room.”  
Steve nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Steve Rogers,” he gives the horse's reins another ineffectual tug.  
“I heard. Like I said, first one’s on the house,” she tilts her head to the door behind her, exposing her throat in a manner that Steve can only assume is inviting. “Maybe Kristen? Or Sharon?” Natasha gives him a predatory smile. “She’s nice.”  
Steve grits his teeth and tugs a little harder on the reins, and the horse finally relents.  
“Thank you, but not interested.”  
Natasha leans forward, intrigued. “Too shy or too scared?”  
Steve tips his hat to her. “Too busy,” he says. “Good day.”  
He can feel her watching him walk away, and when he steals a glance back at the Red Room, she is still leaning against the porch, a willowy blonde woman at her side.

The Blacksmiths lies on the outskirts of town, past the wooden walkways of Main St. The track is lined with canvas tents instead of wooden houses, the crudely built roadside stalls selling whisky shots for a dollar and cold meat pies. Men wander between the stalls, some buying and some selling, all in a big damn hurry to be somewhere.  
The Smithy stands out amongst the wooden shacks and canvas tents, a well-kept building made of dry stone walls and a corrugated iron roof. There is a set of heavy wooden doors opening out to a cleared area down the left side of the building, a waterbut and a long, low bench lined with heavy tools pressed up against the stone wall. In the cleared area at the rear of the building stands an outhouse, and a ways further back from that is a well and a fenced off paddock where a mottled grey horse crops at the dry grass.

Steve walks past the wooden porch leading up to a front door, choosing to lead the damned horse around the side. He finds himself liking the strange building, trailing his fingers along the rough stones, marvelling at how each one fits perfectly in place, despite their differences in size and shape.  
There is a horse post by the side doors, so he loops the reins around it, giving the horse an awkward pat on the side before taking off his hat and approaching the open doorway, flinching at the blast of heat coming from within.  
He goes to tap on the wooden door, hesitating at the array of what look like torture devices hanging from hooks hammered into the wood. Pliers and pincers and spikes.  
“Hello?” He calls out cautiously, peering across the threshold.  
He takes a step inside, eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom, the windowless room lit by a lantern and the glow of the forge.  
The forge. He pauses at the sight of it, built from the same stacks of flat stones as the rest of the building. He has never seen one up close before, and marvels at the shape of it, the stones slotted together to form a work surface at hip height, with ventilation shafts below and a metal grate covered well in the centre where a charcoal fire burns. The blazing hearth is positioned in front of a chimney breast, the flames licking towards the open mantle, drawing the smoke and fumes out of the room. The stones are stacked cleverly to make the open vent a smooth curve, reminiscent of the cartwheels that decorate Steve’s house. He wonders if they were made by the same person.  
He steps back from the heat and knocks over a shovel propped up against the wall, making a clatter. He calls out an apology and picks it up, leaning it against the chimney breast.  
“One minute,” a soft, low voice answers.  
He follows the sound, moving around the hulking, dark shape of the forge and the iron bulk of an anvil. In the far corner of the Smithy he finds the Blacksmith sat hunched over a table, lit by the cherry glow of the fire.

The Blacksmith is tall, almost equal in height to Steve, with broad shoulders clad in a faded red shirt, the buttons at his throat unfastened. His hair is a little too long to be considered respectable, falling in a curtain over his face while he bends over a scrap of paper, making a rough sketch with a nub of pencil. He moves smoothly, making quick dashes and broad curves, his motions sparing and assured.  
The Blacksmith sets down his pencil and looks up at Steve. His eyes are bright blue, stark contrast to the tanned skin and dark stubble under the layers of soot and grime.  
There is a divot in his chin that Steve has the strangest urge to press his thumb to.  
“Yeah?” The Blacksmith’s voice is low and coarse. It sends a chill up Steve’s spine.  
He clears his throat and gestures to the open door way, the bright morning light slanting into the gloom.  
“My horse threw a shoe. Luis recommended you.”  
The Blacksmiths mouth ticks up at the corner at the mention of Luis. He nods and waves to the open door.  
“Alright, lead the way.”  
Steve steps back into the sunshine, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light, the Blacksmith following behind. He feels unsettled, his skin prickling, when the Blacksmith looks at him expectantly, and waves his hat at where the damned horse is tied up.  
“There. The. Uh. The brown one there,” he stutters.  
The Blacksmith raises an eyebrow at him. “Chestnut,” he says after a moment.  
“Excuse me?” Steve asks, but the Blacksmith is watching the damned horse.  
“Not brown, Chestnut,” The Blacksmith says, his voice rough, his accent unfamiliar. “Reddish-brown. A Palomino is lighter, a Bay has a black mane and tale.” He looks back at Steve. “Chestnut.”  
Steve nods. “Chestnut,” he repeats dutifully.  
“She got a name?’ The Blacksmith growls, walking towards the damned horse.  
Steve clears his throat, and resists the urge to tug his collar loose.  
“Not really,” he says eventually. “Damned horse?”  
The Blacksmith snorts, patting the damned horses neck. “She needs a name.”  
Steve manages a nervous laugh. “Didn’t even know it was a she.”  
The Blacksmith glances over at him, his blue eyes sparkling behind strands of dark hair.  
“You didn’t check?” He asks, turning back to the horse.  
“I. Uh. Respect her privacy,” Steve offers.  
The Blacksmith barks out a laugh and nods his head, the smile twisting the corner of his mouth becoming a full grin flashing even, white teeth.

Steve watches the man stroke his hands down the horse’s long neck, scratching at the tuft of hair between her ears and giving gentle caresses down her muzzle. He feels an odd, unsettling stab of envy, to have those rough, calloused hands move over the horse so softly.  
“ _Kushty grai_ ,” the Blacksmith murmurs.  
“Excuse me?” Steve calls out.  
The Blacksmith glances over at Steve. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you.”  
He pats the horse's rump, running a hand down her leg.  
“Alright, let's take a look at you.”  
He spots which foot has lost a shoe, grips the horse by the ankle and gently lifts her leg, still speaking softly in that odd, lilting language. He presses his hip to the horse’s side, letting her take his weight while he positions the foot between his knees, cradling the hoof in the palm of his hand and tilting it to get a look at the base.  
Steve takes a half step closer, fascinated by the sight of his cantankerous creature being so docile and peaceful. The Blacksmith brushes his fingers, long and dexterous and oddly distracting, over the hoof before shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out a small, wooden handled flick knife with a short, squared off blade. He cleans out the mud and rocks compacted in the foot, moving in steady strokes before turning the blade on its side and scraping flakes loose. He brushes the area clear with his fingertips and points to the array of tools on the bench next to Steve.  
“Hand me those clippers,” he murmurs.  
Steve looks down at the tools, passing his hands over the pieces of heavy iron. Pliers, files, pincers. Nothing he could imagine bringing anywhere near a horse. The Blacksmith makes an exasperated noise and Steve grabs the smallest thing on the bench, a pair of pliers, heavy and sharp. He holds them out. The Blacksmith growls and points to the bench a pair of rounded clippers that looks like a mediaeval torture device. Steve picks them up, heavy and cold in his hands and he wonders at the weight of them. The Blacksmith watches him with interest, and Steve mutters an apology and hands it over.  
The Blacksmith adjusts his grip on the hoof, murmuring sweetly to the horse before setting the clippers to the edge of the hoof and shearing off a piece.  
Steve lets out a yell and steps forward, his hand raised, and the Blacksmith chuckles, shaking his head.  
“Don’t know shit about horses, do you?”  
Steve hesitates, watching as he clips away slithers of hoof while the damned horse leans against him like there’s nowhere else in the world that she would rather be.  
“This is like a fingernail,” the Blacksmith tells him, tapping the hoof. “Gets too long it can be uncomfortable.” He touches the pale, crescent shaped inner hoof. “This is the frog, the sensitive part.”  
He holds out the clippers for Steve to put back, pointing to a large metal file on the bench. Steve picks it up, running his thumb along the rasp before he hands it over and watches as the Blacksmith repositions the hoof and scrapes the file back and forth until the surface is smooth and level. He lowers the foot to the ground, patting the horse on the flank and murmuring to her. She whickers and nudges her nose into his hand.

The Blacksmith heads back into his forge, coming back out a moment later with a fresh horseshoe. He lifts up the hoof and checks the fit, giving the horse another pat and a soft whisper of encouragement in his strange tongue before going back inside.  
Steve peers curiously after him through the open doorway and is hit again by the wall of heat from the forge. He hears the ring of metal on metal and follows the sound, and his breath catches in his throat.  
The Blacksmith is stood over an anvil, hammer in his right hand, his left holding the horseshoe in position with a pair of pliers. He strikes the hammer in carefully controlled motions, muscles coiled, his back bowed. Steve stares at the play of muscles across his shoulders under his faded shirt, the bunch and flex of his biceps, the subtle twist of his wrists.  
The Blacksmith pauses to brush sweat dampened hair out his eyes.  
Oh, dear God.  
Steve takes an unsteady step backwards, trying to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his chest.  
The Blacksmith straightens up, assessing his work before setting down his tools and brushing past Steve on his way back outside.  
Steve catches the scent of hot metal and leather and sweat, and thinks he might pass out. Good lord, why now? Why _him_?  
He swallows, screwing his eyes shut and taking slow, steady breaths until his heart stops pounding against his ribs. He hears the striking of a hammer and forces himself back outside.  
The Blacksmith is pressed up against his damned horse, hoof between his muscular thighs as he hammers the shoe into place. He glances up at Steve and pulls the nail sticking out between his teeth, setting it into place on the horseshoe before hammering it in place with two sharp, even strikes.  
“It don’t hurt her, see?” He points to the nail tips poking out through the hoof wall. “Pass me those clippers? The small ones.”  
Steve hesitates before picking up the small clippers he’d offered up before. The Blacksmith takes them from his unresisting hands, their fingers brushing. The touch burns Steve’s skin, crackles through his body like lightning across the sky during a thunderstorm.  
The Blacksmith bends the nail tips over before clipping them short, handing the clippers back to Steve, who holds onto them, staring dumbly.  
“Clinch?” The Blacksmith points to the bench. “There, looks like a duck’s bill.”  
Steve finds the oddly shaped pliers and hands them over, grateful for a task to occupy his trembling hands. He watches the Blacksmith go around the hoof with the tool, crimping the shoe in place. He tests its fit, rubbing his thumb across the join between hoof and metal and nods to himself. He eases the hoof down to the ground, patting the horse's neck and talking softly in that sweet, lilting language.

The Blacksmith takes the clinch back to the bench himself, carefully rearranging the tools that Steve has scattered haphazardly.  
“Thank you,” Steve says softly, getting a noncommittal grunt in response.  
Steve clears his throat and straightens his cuffs, trying to claw his way back to normalcy, sweat gathered uncomfortably at the nape of his neck.  
“What do I owe you?”  
The Blacksmith shakes his head. “No charge.” He goes back to the damned horse and gives her another pat on the neck while she nuzzles at him.  
Steve shakes his head. “I insist.”  
The Blacksmith snorts. “So do I.”  
Steve sighs, feeling a stab of disappointment in his gut. “If you’re expecting preferential treatment from the new Sheriff over a horseshoe…”  
The Blacksmith looks up at him, and Steve catches a brief glimmer of surprise before he smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes it difficult for Steve to keep his thoughts in order.  
“New Sheriff, huh? Not what I was expecting.”  
Steve wants to ask what he was expecting, but he swallows the words clogging up his throat, because as much as he wants to ask, he doubts he’ll like the answer. Instead he holds out his hand.  
“Steve Rogers,” he says firmly.  
The Blacksmith looks at him for a moment, and Steve starts to feel foolish, his hand wavering in the air between them. The Blacksmith shrugs, wiping his palm on his wool trousers and taking the offered hand firmly in his grip. His palm is rough, his fingers scarred and blistered.  
“James Barnes.”  
Steve clasps his hand a little too tightly, for a little too long, and the Blacksmith pulls away first.  
“She’ll need the other shoes replacing in a week or two.” Barnes smirks, “Those I will charge you for. You get any problems in the meantime, you bring her over, alright?” Barnes pauses. “And give her a name.”  
Steve nods his head, fighting back a smile. Barnes gives the horse a last scratch behind the ears before going back into the Smithy without a word of goodbye or a glance over his shoulder.  
For a moment Steve hesitates, half tempted to follow him, though he doesn’t know why, or what he would even say if he did.  
He huffs and picks up the damned horse's reins and leads it - her - out onto the street.  
There is still a long day ahead of him. A jailhouse that he needs to sort out and a conversation to be had with Sam about the role of Deputy. He looks back at the stone building, something sharp and sweet lodged under his breastbone.  
There are letters to write back to New York and provisions to be purchased. His thoughts wander, lingering over blue eyes and the scent of charcoal and iron.  
Steve closes his eyes and breathes in, letting his breath hiss out between his teeth. He still needs to buy a coffee pot.


	3. The Road to Spearfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce smiles at him, like a knife in the darkness. “All we need is the right kind of Sheriff.”  
> “And if I’m the wrong kind of Sheriff?”  
> “Well,” Pierce picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Off screen OC death and sexual assault, death of a minor.  
> Be aware, people.
> 
> Many thanks to Eidheann for shepherding my errant commas, and DoubleOhWh00 for horse wrangling.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) forever reblogging the same five images of Bucky in the red henley
> 
> Rakli - girl

Steve wakes up slowly, propped up in his chair in front of the fireplace. The fire itself had burned out at some point in the night, leaving a charcoaled edge of log and a pile of ashes in the grate. Steve pulls off the blanket wrapped around him, folding it neatly and slowly getting to his feet, setting the even square of wool in the seat, waiting for his inevitable return.  
He stretches, his back popping, before picking up his journal from the floor where it had slipped off his lap in the night. He flicks through the pages, notes from the last few weeks on the road, a rough sketch of the town seen from the Hardware Store. A study of a man's hand, fingers calloused and criss crossed with burns and old scars. The view of the river from his back porch. The fall of dark hair over a lined, soot smeared face. Steve snaps the journal closed and tosses it on the bed that he still hasn’t slept in. Too big and too soft and too strange.  
He goes out into the backyard to use the outhouse and fetch water, washing his face with harsh soap in chill well water. The fireplace is too cold to make coffee, but he washes out the coffee pot from last night and sets it to one side, ready for when he needs it next. 

He dresses carefully, smoothing out the creases in his shirt and waistcoat before buckling on his gun belt and brushing his thumbs over the handle of his pistols, cold and reassuring. He pulls on his coat, straightening out his lapels and letting his fingers trace over the silver star pinned to the cloth. He tucks his thumb underneath the star, presses the pad against an embossed shape under the pin; a cartwheel.  
The sign of the town Blacksmith, Sam had told him when he’d handed the badge over, more than a week ago now. Puts it on everything he makes. Steve had run his fingertip over the design and thought of the fireplace he slept in front of every night, of the latch on his gate.  
A gift, Sam said. He’d made something of an impression on the man. And a Sheriff needs a badge, doesn’t he?  
He’d only seen the Blacksmith a few times in passing since then. The man was reclusive, keeping to his forge. But his eyes had sought out the flash of silver pinned to Steve’s breast, and he had smiled, soft and secretive. Steve had ducked his head, sweat prickling at his collar, heart hammering in his chest.

Steve locks his door and walks down to the road, absently brushing his thumb over the cartwheel on the front gate. He strides over to the Main St Hotel, pausing at the entrance. There is a medium sized brown dog of indeterminate breed sat by the door that wags its tail at Steve when he pats it on the head.  
“Morning, Lucky,” Steve murmurs as he scratches the mongrel behind the ears, smiling as his back leg jerks and tries to scratch.  
If Lucky is around then that means Clint is in town. Steve likes Clint more than he probably should, a prospector who seems cursed to stumble into one form of trouble or another. Whatever gold he does find in his claim in the hills tends to get drunk or spent at the Red Room. But he’s a nice enough fellow.  
Steve pushes his way through the door, wishing good morning to Phil and paying for his meal before going into the dining room.  
Clint is sat at one of the tables, wrapping bacon in a napkin and shoving it in his pocket. Steve busies himself fetching breakfast and coffee, letting the man finish stowing away his dog treats in peace before saying hello.  
“Morning, Clint,” Steve watches him flinch and look guilty. “Mind if I join you?”  
Clint waves at the chair opposite. “Go right ahead, Sheriff.”  
He pats his pocket absently, eyes twitching towards the door.  
“What goes on between you and your bacon is no affair of mine, Clint,” Steve whispers, smiling as the man's features brighten in relief.  
“Good to hear,” Clint whispers conspiratorially, taking a swig of coffee.  
“Any luck out there?” Steve asks, chewing on his slice of toast. Clint holds his hand out, palm down, fingers splayed, and gives it a gentle wobble, like a ship listing at sea.  
“Enough to get a decent breakfast, maybe an evening in the company of a fine lady.”  
It was no secret that Clint was sweet on Natasha, though Steve didn’t know if the feeling was mutual, or if she just liked his money. Sam said that Natasha didn’t service clients personally; he’d asked, and had been gracious in the polite rejection.  
“Well, good luck to you on both counts,” Steve offers.  
Clint grins at him, gulping down the last of his coffee. “Speaking of lucky, I’ll see you around, Sheriff.” Clint gives Steve a friendly nod and takes his plate away, leaving it on the side and heading outside to feed strips of bacon to his dog.

Peggy and Angie come down for breakfast and join him.  
“Good morning Steve,” Peggy says brightly.  
“Behave yourself,” Angie mutters _sotto voce_ in her ear.  
“Never!” Peggy hisses back.  
Steve smiles indulgently at their bickering like an old married couple. They had originally met in New York, they tell him over eggs and bacon. Angie was born and raised in the city, and Peggy fresh off the boat from England. The pair had hit it off, and were still together over fifty years later. They had read about the Wild West, the Pony Express and Wild Bill Hickok, and had taken it upon themselves to do some travelling and see it for themselves, finally ending up in Parasapa.  
Steve admires their spirit, though finds himself a little worried for their safety. They wave off his concerns, Peggy confiding that she has a Remington derringer hidden in her décolletage. Steve isn’t sure what a décolletage is, but still blushes uncomfortably, spluttering a polite refusal when Peggy offers to show it to him.  
He wishes the ladies a good day before escaping out onto the street and stopping by the Hardware Store to check in with Sam, giving a nod to Wanda behind the counter working on the books.  
“Morning, Sheriff,” Sam calls out, stacking the most recent shipment of flour on the shop floor.  
“Deputy,” Steve touches the brim of his hat.  
Sam grins at him, shaking his head. “I know you’re probably busy…” he begins.  
“What?” Steve resists the urge to groan.  
“Pierce has been asking after you again. Say’s it’s lawman business, won’t tell it to anybody else.” Sam stops just short of calling the man an asshole.  
Steve sighs. “Alright, I’ll go over there now.”  
“He’d prefer it if you came by in the afternoon,” Sam rolls his eyes.  
Steve pauses and gives Sam an exasperated look. “I’ll go over there now.”  
Sam waves him off. “Try not to get killed.”

Steve straightens his coat and walks down the alleyway that leads straight to The Union, the saloon owned by Alexander Pierce. He nods to people passing the other way, pausing when he reaches the grand red and blue painted entrance. He takes off his hat, squares his shoulders, and walks through the door.  
Inside, the saloon is quiet, a few people at the bar, a handful sat at tables playing dice. Pierce, resplendent in his red frock coat and black waistcoat chased with gold, sees Steve standing in the doorway and calls out to him, holding both arms wide and walking towards him. Steve feels his fingers twitch, defensive, and has a sudden urge to draw his gun.  
“Mr Rogers,” Pierce calls out, “Come, join me for a drink.”  
Pierce gestures to a spare table, and Steve takes a seat. Pierce fetches a bottle of whiskey from the bar and two shot glasses, setting them down on the table and filling them with amber liquid, resinous and sharp scented. He sets the bottle down with a thump, watching to see if Steve flinches, before sitting down and raising one of the glasses in a toast.  
“I have been asking myself, what will it take to have you come by for a visit?” he asks, his smile sharp like a razor. “Could I have done something to cause offense? Two weeks now, we’ve had ourselves a Sheriff, and not once has he graced these walls.”  
Steve touches two fingers to the full glass of whiskey and slowly pushes it away, it slides smoothly across the polished surface.  
“A little early in the day for you?” Pierce asks. “Perhaps some coffee instead?”  
“I’m fine, thank you,” Steve responds flatly.  
“But still, that it takes a crime to bring you the few steps to my door,” Pierce tuts and shakes his head. “My girls are hard working and willing, very willing,” he gestures to the corners of the room, where women in elegant dresses baringa tasteful amount of skin smile prettily and flutter their eyelashes at him. Steve swallows and grits his teeth. Pierce gives him a sly smile. “If not girls, we cater to… all manner of perversions.” He smiles again, baring his teeth. “With absolute discretion, of course.”  
Steve’s blood runs cold. For a moment he fears that Pierce can see straight into the rot in his heart, the corruption in his flesh. He swallows again, trying to work through the clog in his throat, and keeps quiet.  
“No?” Pierce says after the silence has dragged on too long. He shrugs. “Well, if you change your mind.”  
“I won’t,” Steve bites out. “You asked me here for a reason, I assume?”  
Pierce waits while one of his employees places a fine china cup in front of Steve and fills it with coffee from a silver pot before withdrawing at a wave of Pierce's hand.  
“Jasper Sitwell,” Pierce announces.  
Steve looks at him, pointedly not touching his cup of coffee. “Jasper Sitwell?”  
“An associate of mine. We had a business meeting arranged a couple of months ago. He never showed. Last seen in town three months ago, no sign of him since.” Pierce picks up the second glass of whiskey and swallows it. “I know why you’re here, Mr Rogers.”  
“I’m here because you asked me,” Steve replies.  
Pierce smiles, “This is an illegal settlement, on Indian land, surrounded by gold. Sooner or later, word is going to spread about what’s in those hills,” he waves a hand. “Never mind the dirt-worshippers, the government is going to take notice, and all these businesses? All these gold claims? Well they’ll be invalid. The whole mess swept away and they’ll start all over.” Pierce pours himself another glass of whiskey. “So how do we keep our properties? Our claims? The businesses we’ve strived so hard to establish? By forming our own government. That means a mayor, a fire department, all the rest of it,” he swallows his whiskey. “And a Sheriff. So come territorial legislature we’ll have already established ourselves as bona fide.” He sits back, spreading his arms out.  
Steve tilts his head. “Your point being?”  
Pierce smiles at him, like a knife in the darkness. “All we need is the right kind of Sheriff.”  
“And if I’m the wrong kind of Sheriff?”  
“Well,” Pierce picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

Steve storms out of The Union, head bowed, teeth clenched. He balls his hands into fists and fights down the urge to punch something as he barrels his way down the alley and runs right into Peter.  
“Sam’s looking for you, we got trouble,” he utters, his thick accent slurring the words.  
Steve doesn’t ask questions, just follows him to the Hardware Store, where Sam is stood outside looking troubled, a small group of townsfolk around him. Steve recognises one of the men, a sour, craggy-featured individual, as Brock Rumlow, who seems hell bent on getting the people whipped up into a frenzy, shouting about Indians massacring settlers.  
“What the hell is going on here?” Steve shouts.  
The people quiet down, and Steve looks to Sam, who singles out Rumlow.  
“The man says he came across some settlers killed by Indians out of the road to Spearfish.”  
“And we’re gonna get some payback,” Rumlow sneers, lifting his rifle.  
The other townspeople start making a racket, and Steve pulls open his jacket, resting his hand on his hip just above his pistol. The men fall silent, moving restlessly. Before anyone can open their fool mouths Steve speaks.  
“I’ll go and check it out myself. If it is an Indian attack, then we will deal with it,” he looks at each of them in turn, finally settling on Rumlow. “Will you show me the way?”  
Rumlow hesitates, then shakes his head. “I can’t go back there,” he mutters, looking uncomfortable and refusing to meet Steve’s gaze.  
Steve sighs and shakes his head. “Where are they?”  
Rumlow fidgets, his eyes to the ground. “Couple of hours hard ride north on the main road. Got forced off the track, went straight down the hill.” He shrugs, “Musta been travelling alone when it happened.”  
“What did the wagon look like?” Sam asks.  
Rumlow glares at him. “Like a fuckin’ wagon.”  
“Alright,” Steve interrupts.” Go about your business, people.”  
He turns to Sam. “You know who it might be?”  
Sam leans in closer, waiting for the gathered crowd to drift away before speaking in a low tone. “There was a family headed out. Guy had made a bit of money selling his claim and they were moving back to Minneapolis. Left town yesterday.” Sam watches the people walking by. “Husband and wife, a little boy. Another one on the way.”  
Steve sucks air through his teeth. “Alright.” He glances at Sam. “If I’m not back by nightfall…”  
“You’ve gotten lost and I need to come rescue your sorry ass?”  
Steve gives him a smile. “That’s it.”

Steve goes over to the Livery, where the Ostler gladly saddles up the damned horse for him, buckling her bridle into place and holding her steady while Steve mounts. He wishes Steve good speed before slapping the horse on the rump and sending them out onto the street.  
Steve nods to Sam as he rides past, keeping a tight grip on the reins as the horse makes her way through town, passing the Doc’s place and suddenly swerving left when they reach the fork.  
_Damnit_ , Steve thinks to himself as the horse trots over to the Red Room, despite his attempts to pull her back to the road.  
“C’mon,” he hisses, tugging at the reins uselessly.  
“Morning, Sheriff,” a familiar voice calls, low and amused.  
Steve’s head snaps up. There on the porch of the Red Room, Natasha by his side, is the Blacksmith.  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes blood. James Barnes, looking right at home at the local whorehouse. The sight makes Steve feel nauseous, off balance, and he suddenly realises that he’s not hiding his distress. He quickly pulls the brim of his hat down low while Barnes reaches out to stroke the damned horses head, scratching her cheek.  
If Barnes sees the appalled look on his face, he doesn’t mention it, and Steve keeps his head down until he can force his expression into something more neutral. Natasha sees him, though, and smiles.  
“She got a name yet?” Barnes asks him. Steve shakes his head and Barnes tuts softly.  
“What’s got you riding out in such a hurry, Sheriff,” Natasha asks, leaning on the porch rail.  
“Incident on the road to Spearfish. They’re saying some Indians ambushed a wagon.”  
Barnes head jerks up. “Who’s saying?” he snaps.  
Steve dares to take a look at him. Barnes shoulders are tensed, a frown creasing his brow. He looks angry, rather than defensive, so Steve answers.  
“Fellow called Rumlow, you know him?”  
Barnes expression darkens. “I’m coming with you,” he says flatly.  
Steve shakes his head. “That’s not necessary, you…” he hesitates. What the man does with his time and money is his own affair, but it still makes Steve’s guts twist up to think about what he has been up to. “You finish your business here.”  
Natasha laughs at him, and Bucky growls at her. “Sheriff, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Natasha seems to find Bucky glaring at her funny. “Mr Barnes here has never engaged in my services,” she gives him a pointed look. “Despite offers. He came by to do some repairs.”  
Barnes reaches down and picks up a bag of tools that had been sat on the porch between them. Steve hadn’t even noticed them until now. His heart thumps painfully against his ribcage, relief and panic in equal measure.  
“The way you’re handling that horse, you’re liable to end up in a creek with broken neck long before you reach Spearfish,” Barnes points out, soft and amused.  
Steve licks his lips. “Fine, then.”  
Barnes shoulders his tool bag and walks down the porch steps to the road.  
“What do I owe you, Barnes?” Natasha calls after him.  
“You’re money’s no good to me, Romanov,” he answers, not looking back.  
Barnes pats the damned horse on the flank, and she follows him obediently across the street to the Smithy.

Steve waits with the damned horse in the clearing down the side of the stone building while Barnes fetches a bridle and walks down to the paddock. Steve feels a little twinge of envy as his horse, a dappled blue-grey mare, holds still for him while he buckles it in place and opens the gate, letting the horse amble past and over to where Steve is. He tenses up as the strange horse approaches.  
“Relax,” Barnes mutters, going into the Smithy.  
Steve doesn’t relax, digging his knees into the damned horse's side. Barnes' horse sniffs at them, and Steve’s horse jerks back, ears flat against its head.  
“Barnes,” Steve calls out, trying to sounds calm.  
The Blacksmith reappears, pulling on a patched blue jacket, a rifle in one hand. He gives Steve an exasperated look and comes over to scratch the damned horse behind the ear, talking gently in that strange, melodic language of his. It takes Steve a minute to realise that he’s singing softly, that the melody is familiar, the words half English, interspersed with the strange tongue.  
Barnes’ horse comes closer, and the two sniff at each other. The damned horse twitches her ears forward and nuzzles at the grey horse, who presses up against her side. Barnes nods, satisfied, and pats the horse's bare back before hoisting himself up, cradling the rifle across his lap.  
“Don’t you need a saddle?” Steve asks, startled.  
“No,” Barnes grins at him, a flash of white teeth before he clicks his tongue and his horse starts walking.  
The damned horse follows, keeping pace with them.  
“Your horse got a name?” Steve asks as they make their way out of town.  
“ _Rakli_ ,” Barnes answers.  
It’s a strange word, Steve thinks. Strange but well suited.

They travel north along the twisting hill road that Steve first took into town those weeks before. Barnes keeps the pace steady, not so fast that they’ll wear the horses, not so slow that it takes all day to get there. Barnes doesn’t offer conversation, just keeps his eyes on the road ahead.  
“I take it you don’t trust Rumlow?” Steve breaks the silence when the town disappears behind the trees.  
“About as far as I can throw him,” Barnes snorts.  
Steve hums to himself. “Any particular reason why?”  
Barnes turns to him with a frown. For a moment Steve thinks he’s about to say something, but he just shakes his head. “Just don’t like him, I guess.”  
Steve lets the silence stretch between them a little longer before speaking again. “You know anything about a Jasper Sitwell?”  
Barnes shakes his head. “No.”  
“You sure? He disappeared a few months back.”  
Barnes shrugs. “A lot of people disappear,” the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Probably why we need a Sheriff.”

They find the wagon a few hours north at a sharp bend in the road, the wreckage spread down the hillside. The slope is shallow enough to walk down, so Barnes ties their horses to a nearby tree where they can reach a patch of grass before picking his way down the slope, quickly catching up with Steve.  
The wagon is a crumpled heap of splinters and canvas, crates and bags scattered across the rocks. Steve finds the man a short distance away, and crouches down to check him, finding his throat cut. Barnes finds the woman by the flapping canvas of the wagon, and swears loudly. Steve gets to his feet and scrambles over to find Barnes carefully rearranging the woman's skirts, disgust twisting his mouth as he pulls the folds of cloth over her knees. She had been strangled, her eyes wide and bloodied.  
“Was she..?” Steve can’t manage the rest of his question, the words lodged in his throat.  
“Yeah,” Bucky growls.  
Steve turns away, head bowed. “They really are savages.”  
“Indians didn’t do this!” Barnes snarls at him. “Look around!” He waves to the boxes and bags scattered around them. “All the provisions have been left lying around. And I bet if you check over that body you won’t find a single dollar on him.”  
Steve looks back at the dead man lying in the dirt. “He’d just sold a claim. Was heading east,” he murmurs. “Someone in town must’ve overheard. Followed them.”  
Barnes makes a noise of disgust and starts pulling at the wagon, stripping the canvas lining from the bowed roof.  
“There was a boy,” Steve says suddenly.  
Barnes freezes, then after a moment his shoulder slump. “Fuck,” he whispers.  
They work their way down the slope, Barnes spots a horse, no doubt the one that drove the wagon, and goes to catch it. Steve casts around, searching the rocks for any sign, until he hears Barnes call out for him, the horse's reins still in his hands.  
Small, far too small, is all Steve can think as he picks up the body. Neither speak as they make their way back up to the wreckage and the boys parents. Steve watches silently as Barnes wraps up the bodies and straps them to the horse's back. He goes through the wreckage and collects up any papers and documents he can find. When there is nothing else left to do they climb up to the road, leading the horse with its heavy burden behind them.  
Barnes silently helps Steve onto his horse before mounting his own, keeping the reins of the wagon horse firmly in his hand as they turn around and make their way back to town.

They travel in silence, Steve’s head bowed, his heart troubled. He knew frontier life was harsh, knew that murder happened everyday. He’d seen no end of horror and hardship in the war, and the hunger and desperation that followed. But to see the worst that man could do, spread out on the hillside on a bright autumn day, it sickened him.  
“You got family, Barnes?” he asks, when the silence weighs too heavily on him.  
“Yeah, back home.” Barnes answers, his voice muted.  
Steve can’t quite place his accent, but makes a stab at it. “England?”  
Barnes sniffs. “Yeah.”  
“You don’t sound much like any English I’ve met,” Steve comments.  
That raises a smile from Barnes. “Don’t reckon I would. From all over, really. Didn’t stay in one place too long. Just,” he waves a hand, “Looped round in a circuit every year.”  
Steve nods, curious. “What brought you over?”  
Barnes shrugs, and Steve raises his eyebrows. “You on the run or something?!”  
“I didn’t steal anything, just took back what was mine!” Barnes snaps.  
Steve swallows, and doesn’t ask any more questions.

“I got commissioned. For a piece of ironwork. Damn good job I did of it too. Only he decides not to pay,” Barnes growls some time later. “So I go over there and take it back. He calls the law in, accuses me of stealing.” He glances at Steve. “And since I didn’t fancy getting my neck stretched over a chunk of iron, no matter how hard I worked on it, I hightailed it to Liverpool, got on a ship, bailed out when we reached New York.”  
Steve frowns. “Surely you could have made your case? Spoken with the…”  
Barnes laughs at him. “Law is there for white people,” he sneers.  
Steve stares at him for a moment. “But you’re white?”  
Barnes shakes his head. “Romany,” he says, his eyes fixed warily on Steve. “Gypsy,” he clarifies when Steve doesn’t react.  
Steve makes a soft, surprised sound. He’d read about Gypsies, even seen a few in New York reading palms and telling fortunes. He peers at Barnes, with his dark hair and blue eyes, and for a moment wonders if the stories of enchantments and curses are true. He shakes his head, annoyed with himself.  
“The language,” Steve murmurs. “The one you speak to the horses with. That’s yours?”  
Barnes’ lips quirk up briefly, and he gives a short nod. “Smithings the family trade. Learned it from my da.”  
Steve nods his head thoughtfully. “My father died before I was born. He was a soldier.”  
“Family trade, huh?”  
“You could say that,” Steve shifts in the saddle. “Ma… Ma got sick. I did my best to take care of her. Got into her lungs and she couldn’t shake it.”  
Barnes makes a sympathetic noise, but doesn’t comment, and for once Steve is grateful for the silence.

“You from New York?” Barnes asks, when they’re in sight of the town. The sun is low in the sky, the heat of the day mellowed as the shadows lengthen.  
“Yeah. Brooklyn.”  
Barnes sniffs. “Brooklyn? Pretty good name for a horse.”  
Steve thinks on it for a while. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Brooklyn.” He pats the horse’s neck. “She’s not tried to take a bite out of me today either,” he adds.  
“You’ve been in control,” Barnes says quietly. “Horses are pack animals. If there isn’t a leader around they get twitchy. She’s been trying to be in charge, but she didn’t know how.” He adjusts the rifle in his lap. “With everything going on, you forgot you didn’t know how to handle a horse.”  
Steve tilts his head. “Is that so?”  
They fall silent again until they reach the edge of town, when Barnes glances back at the canvas wrapped bundles strapped to the wagon horse.  
“Taking them to the Doc?”  
Steve nods. “Yeah. Get him to take a look. There’s a Preacher across town, isn’t there?”  
Barnes nods. “I’ll square it with him in the morning.”  
“Thank you,” Steve says quietly. “For everything.”  
“Not a problem,” Barnes says softly. He pauses, clearing his throat. “My family,” he says, slow and hesitant. “They called me Bucky.”  
Steve shifts in his saddle, a warm weight in his breast. “Bucky.”

The Doc is waiting for them, and paces while they secure their horses and unstrap their sorrowful cargo. He leads them to the back room, where they lay the bodies out on a pallet in the corner. The Doc fidgets with his glasses, and his expression crumples when he sees the smallest bundle being laid down. He pulls back the wrappings and confirms that it’s the family Sam had seen leaving camp the previous day.  
“Do you know of any kin?” the Doc asks.  
“I found some papers at the site, I’ll write to them in the morning,” Steve informs him.  
The Doc nods. “Damned shame,” he mutters.  
“You’ll get no argument here,” Steve agrees.  
The Doc leads them into main room, the shelves filled with glass bottles and jars, the rafters hung with bunches of sweet smelling herbs.  
“I was called out to the camp this afternoon,” the Doc says abruptly. “The tents on the edge of town?”  
Steve nods and waits for him to continue, Bucky coming to stand at his side.  
“I treated a man there. Muscle pain, vomiting,” the Doc looks down, his shoulders hunched. “We may be looking at smallpox.”  
Steve bites back a curse. “What’s your recommendation?” he asks instead.  
“We need vaccine. I don’t have any, and I don’t have the facilities to make any.”  
“Where can we get some?” Steve folds his arms across his chest.  
“Belle Fourche should have some. Or Sioux Falls.”  
“Sioux Falls is five days ride,” Bucky says. “Belle Fourche is, what? Day an' a half? Two?”  
Doc looks at them in turn. “They’ll want money. Vaccines don’t come cheap.”  
“I’ve got a little saved up,” Bucky offers. “Can Sam spare any?”  
“I’ll ask him,” Steve gives him a grateful look. “And Phil.”  
“Natasha,” Bucky adds to their expanding list. He looks closely at Steve, at the lines around his eyes. “But it can wait ‘till morning.”  
Steve makes a noise of protest, but Bucky talks over him. “It’s late. Sending someone out to Bell Forche this late is just asking for trouble. No one is going to say yes to someone hammering on their door in the middle of the night. We’ll take care of it in the morning, send someone out at first light.” Bucky glances over at the Doc. “If that’s alright with you?”  
The Doc nods, and Bucky turns to the door. “I’ll put your horse with mine for the night, save waking up Odinson. Should I take the other one until we know what to do with him?”  
Steve nods. “Yes, thank you.”  
“Alright, c’mon then,” Bucky heads out without a glance back.  
Steve follows, pausing in the doorway. “Doc, you heard of a Jasper Sitwell?”  
The Doc frowns at him. “Yeah. Passes through town now and then. Why do you ask?”  
“Any idea where I can find him?”  
The Doc thinks for a moment. “The Union, mostly. He stayed in lodgings that side of town.”  
“Not at Main St?”  
The Doc shakes his head. “Didn’t get on so well with Phil, from what I heard.”  
Steve sighs and thanks the Doc, before heading out onto the darkening street and catching up with Bucky.

Bucky walks slowly, his head bowed, and soon Steve is walking alongside him, taking Brooklyn's reins out of his unresisting hand.  
“You thinking it was Rumlow?” Steve murmurs, his voice pitched low as a few townsfolk wander past, nodding in greeting.  
“Probably. If not him then one of the guys he runs with.”  
Steve thinks for a moment, “Rollins?”  
“Good memory,” Barnes nods. “Few others, but those are the ones you need to keep an eye on.”  
They reach the Smithy and lead the horses to the paddock. Steve leans on the gate while Bucky takes off Brooklyn's saddle and unbuckles the bridle of each horse, sending them into the enclosure one by one.  
“Why come into town making noise?,” Steve wonders aloud. “Why draw attention?”  
Bucky shrugs, winding the bridles into a bundle and motioning to Steve to close the gate.  
“Sometimes killing gets a man's blood up, makes him stupid.” He glances at Steve. “You’ve seen that in the war.”  
Steve nods, following Bucky to the Smithy. He’d seen bloodlust, seen men driven insane by it. Put a rifle in a man's hand and tell him to go for anyone wearing the wrong colours, and the ones that don’t freeze up or throw up take a terrible pleasure in killing without compunction.  
Bucky unlocks the heavy side doors, pulling one open. Steve watches as he finds a box of matches and lights lanterns around the room, suffusing the stones with a soft amber glow.  
“Or,” Steve ponders as Bucky rakes the coals in the forge and sets a pair of bellows to one of the vents under the fire, working them until the coals catch and burn, flames dancing in the gloom. “It was supposed to stir up bad blood between the townsfolk and the Indians.”  
Steve can’t see Bucky’s face in the half light, but it’s not hard to imagine his expression.  
“Wheels within wheels,” Bucky says wearily, and sets a coffee pot in the embers before pointing to a nearby chair. “Sit down before you fall down, Sheriff. You look dead on your feet.”  
Steve takes the chair, warming his hands on the fire and accepting the tin mug of coffee Bucky hands him before pulling a chair from the back room and joining him.  
The coffee is sour and sharp, but not enough to keep him awake.


	4. The Search for Jasper Sitwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes a step closer, and the lantern bathes Bucky’s body in soft amber light.  
> He sleeps shirtless, the blankets pushed down to his navel, revealing defined muscles and a fine dusting of dark hair across his chest, beaded with sweat. His features are softened in sleep, smooth and untroubled. Steve stares at him, the low light catching the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, at his collarbones, and the word _beautiful_ whispers into his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings to brief descriptions of graphic violence. Step carefully, folks.
> 
> With thanks, as always, to my illustrious beta Eidheann, for kicking me where I needed kicking, and DoubleOhWh00 for... hell, I don't even know where to start.

Steve wakes up with a full bladder and a sore neck. He sits up the chair, disoriented, and looks around. There is a single lantern on the table near him, the wick dimmed low. Next to it lies his wide brimmed hat, though he doesn’t remember removing it. There is a worn woolen blanket draped over him, the corners tucked around his shoulders. He lifts his hands to his face, letting the blanket drop into his lap while he knuckles at his eyes.  
He’d only meant to sit for a little while, drink his coffee and then go back to his big empty house for the night, but he’d clearly fallen asleep during a lull in conversation.  
He gets to his feet, folds the blanket and drops it in the chair before yawning and stretching, rubbing at his stiff neck. The room is warm, the fire banked, a dull orange glimmer amongst the ashes. Steve picks up the lantern and goes in search of Bucky.  
There is a back room behind the forge, built of the same dry stones slotted together as the rest of the Smithy. There is a bed in the far corner, a steamer trunk at the foot of it. In the wall above the bed there is a small alcove cluttered with jars and coins and little tools, the kind of things that you would empty out of your pockets at the end of the day. Bucky lies asleep in the bed.  
Steve takes a step closer, and the lantern bathes Bucky’s body in soft amber light. He sleeps shirtless, the blankets pushed down to his navel, revealing defined muscles and a fine dusting of dark hair across his chest, beaded with sweat. His features are softened in sleep, smooth and untroubled. A calloused hand rests on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head. Steve stares at him, the low light catching the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, at his collarbones, and the word _beautiful_ whispers into his thoughts.  
Bucky shifts in his sleep and Steve flinches, nearly dropping the lantern. He retreats from the room, his heart thumping in his throat, his hands shaking, stumbling back to the forge. He sets the lantern on the table and takes a deep breath, struggling to pull himself together.  
When he trusts himself to carry the lantern again without dropping it, he takes it to the heavy wooden doors. There is an iron key in the lock and he turns it, the mechanism oiled and well maintained, as are the hinges in the door, so he makes no noise as he slips outside. 

The dawn is breaking, the navy sky tinged with pink and gold. Steve picks his way across the clearing to the yard out back, lantern swinging low to light his path, and makes his way to the outhouse.  
He finishes up and walks over to the paddock to check on the horses, watching them as they wake up. He lets the cool air clear his thoughts before he walks back to the Smithy, pushing the door open to see Bucky already up. He is wearing a dark grey work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is damp and swept back off his face, droplets of water rolling down the nape of his neck.  
He glances up at Steve and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.  
“There you are. Thought you took off.”  
Steve shakes his head, his mouth too dry to speak.  
Bucky rakes over the coals in the forge, working around a coffee pot set in the embers. “Coffee?”  
“Please,” Steve murmurs.  
He picks up his blanket and sits in the chair, resting the woolen bundle on his knees. Bucky hands him a mug of coffee. “Try to stay awake this time,” he says with a smile.  
Steve flushes and nods, accepting his tin cup. The coffee is sharp and bitter, and this time it manages to wake him up. Bucky sits down in his own chair, making a soft noise of discomfort.  
“You alright?” Steve asks, concerned.  
Bucky nods. “Yeah, fine. Just… didn’t sleep so well.”  
Steve swallows another mouthful of coffee, hot and bitter, and wonders if Bucky saw him. He grips his mug tighter.  
“You think the worst of people,” Bucky sighs. “And they still disappoint you.”  
Steve breathes out, slow and even, nodding his head. “Yeah,” he murmurs, thinking of the wagon broken into pieces and scattered across the hillside.  
Bucky pours them each a second cup of coffee, pausing to stir the coals in the forge.  
“You always keep that thing burning?” Steve asks.  
Bucky nods. “Bad luck to let it go out.” Steve makes a questioning sound. “The fire is alive, you let it go out, it dies. Bad luck.”  
Steve hums and looks down at his cup, feeling a twinge of disappointment that it’s empty.  
“I’d best get going,” he sighs, setting the mug on the table and picking up his hat. “Thank you for the coffee, and the blanket.”  
Bucky waves him away. “Anytime.” He disappears into the back room, coming back with a leather pouch, holding it out to Steve. It’s soft, fringed with tassels, a cartwheel design in beads sewn onto the front. Steve opens the flap and sees a bundle of neatly folder dollar bills. He closes it just as quickly.  
“I can’t take all this,” he says softly.  
Bucky shrugs. “Take some of it.”  
Steve pointedly counts out five dollars, holding them up before handing the pouch back. Bucky takes it, the corner of his mouth twitching, and goes back to tuck it away in whatever hiding place it belongs.  
They head outside, Steve fitting his hat squarely on his head, Bucky collecting Brooklyn's saddle and bridle on the way out.  
Bucky clicks his tongue and the horses come ambling over, nosing at his pockets for treats while he straps the saddle in place and fits the bridle, Steve opening the gate so he can lead the horse out to the clearing, pushing it closed and latching it before following.  
“You need a hand up?” Bucky asks with a smirk.  
Steve rolls his eyes. “Funny.” He manages to get into the saddle without embarrassing himself.  
Barnes snaps off a salute and Steve tugs at the reins, leading the horse out onto the street.

Steve rides down to the Livery to stable the horse, wishing good morning to the Ostler before going to the Hardware Store. Sam is already up and opening up the store, the Doc hovering by the counter with Wanda and Peter.  
“Hey, Sam,” Steve says. “The Doc fill you in?”  
Sam nods, his expression grim. “Spoke with Nick, he’s put forward some money for vaccine.”  
“Good to hear. You speak to Phil?” Sam shakes his head. “I’ll go over there now, I need to talk to him anyway.”  
Steve pulls the dollars from Bucky out of his pocket and hands them over to the Doc. “From Barnes, he’s seeing if the Red Room can spare any too.”  
The Doc takes the fold. “Nat’s a decent person, she’ll help out.” He waves to Sam. “Mr Wilson has been kind enough to make a donation.”  
“Any word from the Union?”  
The Doc shakes his head.  
“They thank us for making them aware of the situation, but will be considering their options and dealing with it in house,” Sam quotes, his expression sour.  
Steve bites back a curse. “Alright then, I’ll go see what Phil has to say.”  
He tips his hat and goes back outside, nodding to passers-by as he crosses the street.

Phil looks up from his ledger as Steve comes through the door. “Good Morning, Sheriff. Breakfast?”  
Steve shakes his head, glancing over at the dining room, where a handful of people are eating. “Can I speak with you in private?”  
Phil nods, putting his pen away and closing his ledger, tucking it into a shelf behind the counter.  
“My office is this way,” he says solicitously, leading Steve to a small room below the stairs, the walls lined with shelves crammed with books and papers. There is enough room for a small wooden desk and two chairs. Phil squeezes behind the desk and sits, rearranging the papers strewn across the surface. Steve declines a seat and remains standing.  
“How can I help you, Sheriff? Is it about the incident yesterday? Are Indians attacking people?” Phil shuffles his papers nervously.  
“The incident out towards Spearfish looks to be the work of road agents, not Indians.”  
“Are you sure?” Phil asks. “Because if Indians are attacking, then people are going to stop coming here.” Phil taps his stack of papers on the table, lining up the corners with his thumbs. “That would be bad for business.”  
Steve sees his opportunity and takes it. “What would be bad for business is an outbreak of smallpox.”  
“Smallpox?” Phil turns pale.  
“The Doc says he’s seen signs on the outskirts of town. We’re sending a rider out this morning to get vaccine, enough for the whole town.” Steve watches Phil’s expression. “But it’ll cost money.”  
Phil sits back in his chair. “You’re here for a donation,” he says flatly.  
“We’re approaching all the local businesses for help, whatever you can spare.”  
Phil drums his fingers on the table. “My customers will get priority treatment,” he says. “The Doc will come here and treat them first.”  
Steve grits his teeth. “Agreed.”  
Phil opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a small metal cash box. He unlocks it and counts out a handful of notes. After a moment of hesitation, he hands over the money. Steve reaches out to take it, but Phil doesn’t let go.  
“You personally guarantee that my customers will be seen first?”  
Steve swallows the lump of anger in the back of his throat. “Children will be seen first. Women. The elderly. Then your customers.”  
“Some of my residents are old women,” Phil counters.  
“Then they will be seen first,” Steve growls.  
Phil grudgingly lets go of the money.  
Steve tucks the notes into his pocket. “Thank you.”  
Phil nods. “I’m a busy man, Sheriff, will there be anything else?”  
Steve is about to say no when a thought occurs to him. “Have you heard of a Jasper Sitwell?”  
Phil visibly flinches. “Yes. Former resident. What’s he done?”  
Steve is surprised at the bile in Phils tone. “Nothing, as far as I’m aware. He’s disappeared.”  
“Well, good riddance.” Phil mutters.  
“I take it you didn’t get along?”  
Phil shakes his head. “Some people… Some folks have a dark turn of mind,” he says eventually. “He’d come through town every month or so. He was… upsetting the other residents, so I barred him from the hotel.”  
“When was this?”  
“Four months ago, maybe? I think he went to the place on the other side of town, the… something… star.”  
“The ‘something’ star?”  
Phil nods. “Disreputable. Not at all clean, and they offer substandard meals.”  
“Thank you,” Steve interrupts. He touches two fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’ll see myself out.”

Steve strides into the Hardware Store and throws the money on the counter in front of the Doc. He pulls off his hat and tosses it at a nearby chair, making no move to rescue it when it tumbles to the floor.  
“You got money out of Coulson?” The Doc looks surprised, picking up the notes and counting them out.  
“He must like you,” a familiar voice, soft and resonant, murmurs from the doorway.  
Steve turns to see Bucky stood in the stores entrance, hands in his pockets. All the anger boiling up inside him evaporates at the Blacksmith's smile.  
Sam looks up in surprise. “Mr Blacksmith, out in daylight? It must be the end times.”  
Bucky snorts, walking over to the counter and pulling a handful of notes out of his pocket. He straightens out the bundle and folds them in half lengthways before handing them over to the Doc.  
“From Nat and the girls,” he says. “They’d appreciate it if they got in early on the vaccinating, since they have a lot of contact with folks around the camp.”  
The Doc takes the money and adds it to his pile. “Women and children first,” he says.  
“She’d also appreciate it if you were to swing by later and let them know what to look out for, symptoms wise,” Barnes adds. “And something about tea.”  
The Doc nods. “She’ll be needing more pennyroyal. I’ll see to it.”  
“Thank you,” Bucky shoves his hands back in his pockets and looks over at Steve. “You picked a rider to go to Belle Fourche?”  
Steve shakes his head, “Not yet.”  
“I’ll go,” Sam says. “Wanda and Peter can run the store, it’ll only be a couple of days.”  
Steve shakes his head. “Sam, you don’t have to.”  
“Sheriff, let the man go,” Bucky cuts in. Sam doesn't hide his look of surprise. “Mr Wilson knows the roads and can take care of himself. You however will get yourself lost or killed.”  
Sam grins broadly at Bucky before turning to Steve, who shakes his head at them both. “You’ve never even been to Belle Fourche, Steve,” Sam takes great pleasure in pointing out.  
“This is a conspiracy,” Steve mutters, which just makes Bucky laugh. “Alright, Sam. If you’re sure?” Sam huffs and rolls his eyes.  
The Doc writes out the necessary information, wrapping it around the bundle of money and tucking it into an envelope before handing it over.  
“This gonna be enough?” Sam asks, tucking the package into an inside pocket in his jacket.  
“Just about,” the Doc answers vaguely.  
They wish Sam a safe journey, and watch as he exchanges a few words with Wanda and Peter before heading out to the Livery.

Steve watches Sam walk away, silently wishing him good luck before turning back to the Doc.  
“Did you finish your study of the family?” he asks.  
“The Andersens,” the Doc says softly. “Husband died of blood loss. Wife of strangulation. Child died in the fall.”  
Steve nods soberly. “The Preacher?”  
“Abraham,” the Doc says. “Spoke to him this morning. He’s planning on the funeral this evening. Mr Barnes has offered to assist with the burial.”  
“Can I help at all?” Steve offers.  
Bucky shakes his head. “We’ll manage. If Pietro can give a hand, that would be appreciated.”  
Peter looks up from the counter where he is standing with his sister. “Not a problem.”  
Steve frowns. at him. “Am I missing something?”  
Peter smiles awkwardly. “My name is Pietro, but people find it’s easier to call me Peter.”  
“It’s not your name, though.” Bucky mutters.  
Steve huffs in amusement, repeating the name until he gets it right. “Pietro it is then.”  
Pietro gives Steve an appreciative nod before following Bucky out the door. Steve watches through the window as they walk off towards the town graveyard, the boy dashing on ahead as usual. Wanda picks Steve’s wide brimmed hat and dusts it off before placing it on the counter.  
The Doc pats at his pockets absently. “I’d best go tend to Miss Romanov, or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he mutters.  
“Thank you, Doc,” Steve says earnestly.  
The Doc waves a hand at him. “Don’t thank me yet.”  
He nods to them both before putting on his hat, a scuffed, sage coloured bowler, and shambling out the door.

Steve spends the morning helping out at the Hardware store, moving the sacks and barrels too heavy for Wanda to manage and dealing with the customers, though half of the people coming into the store just want to ask about the Indian attack on the road to Spearfish.  
“There was no Indian attack, it was road agents,” he tells them, again and again.  
“I’m looking into the matter,” he says, again and again.  
“I appreciate your concern, but there is no cause for alarm,” he reassures them, again and again.  
He sorts through the papers he collected from the Andersen’s wagon and finds a letter from a family member. He takes himself to the back room, amongst the sacks of flour and beans, and sits at Sam's desk to write a letter to them. He writes of his sorrow for their loss, and where they will be buried. He lies in his letter, and tells them that they died in an accident on the road. It seems kinder. He adds that their horse survived, and if they do not wish to travel to retrieve it, he can send them an appropriate sum of money instead. He seals the letter in a spare envelope from the desk and writes the address on the front in neat copperplate before tucking it into his inside pocket. He’ll pass it on to Luis or one of the other freight services that pass through town at the next opportunity.  
Bucky and Pietro return in the afternoon with grave dirt under their fingernails and weary expressions. Bucky looks out of breath, and Pietro slaps him on the back and calls him an old man. Steve slips the twins a few coins to go get a hot meal, though Bucky turns down the offer.  
“I got no appetite,” he says apologetically. “Another time though, yeah?”  
Steve makes a noise of agreement, his throat constricting painfully at the notion.  
With the twins gone and the crowds dispersed for lunch they are suddenly alone in the Hardware Store, and Bucky takes a careful step closer.  
“You gonna take me somewhere fancy, Sheriff?” Bucky murmurs, cocking his head to one side.  
There is something playful in his tone, if he were a woman Steve would call it flirtatious. He ducks his head and smiles. “I don’t know if the hotel is all that fancy,” he stares at the floorboards.  
“Well, it’s not pork and beans over a campfire,” Bucky moves a little closer, nudging Steve with his shoulder. “I guess I’ll make do.”  
Steve nudges him back. “Well that’s very kind of you.”  
“Can’t be that fancy if they’re letting the likes of you in,” Bucky teases gently.  
Steve looks up at him and his heart kicks in his chest, a sweet ache. “Well maybe I’ll just take the Doc instead.”  
Bucky mock gasps at him, and Steve chuckles.  
“Alright, I got work to do,” Bucky says. “I’ll see you at the funeral. You know where the graveyard is?”  
“Across the bridge, on the right,” Steve answers.  
Bucky nods, and heads for the door, snapping off a salute on the way out.

Steve leaves Wanda and Pietro to close up the store for the evening and walks down to the bridge, crossing the river and up the hill to the small graveyard. He finds Bucky there with the Preacher, a soft spoken man with a shock of grey hair and a patchy salt and pepper beard. His eyes are kind behind his wire framed glasses.  
“You are the Sheriff, yes?” he asks in a thick German accent.  
“I am. Abraham, is it?”  
The Preacher nods, holding his battered bible to his chest. “I do not expect many mourners today. Shall we begin?”  
Steve gestures for him to continue, and he opens his bible to a bookmarked page. Steve removes his hat, and Bucky comes to stand next to him, his head bowed. They listen as Abraham murmurs softly, words of life after life that bring no comfort to Steve. He glances at Bucky, head bowed and eyes open, waiting patiently.  
The short speech draws to an end, and the three of them each take a shovel and fill in the graves.  
“Are you a religious man?” Abraham breaks the silence.  
“Not anymore,” Steve answers truthfully.  
Abraham considers for a moment, lifting a shovelful of dirt and placing it carefully on the smallest grave. “The road is rarely straight or clear,” he says finally. “But we all have our paths to God, whether we choose to walk them or not.” He pauses to lift another shovel of dirt. “I think… it doesn’t matter what you believe in. What matters is that you strive to be a good man.”  
Steve pauses in his digging and straightens his back. “I’m inclined to agree,” he says, leaning on his shovel.  
They finish the burial, levelling out the mounded earth. Bucky murmurs under his breath in his own language, a handful of words that sound like a blessing, like an apology.  
The Preacher thanks them, taking the shovels and sending them on their way.

They walk, side by side, across the bridge. Bucky pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and climbs down to the water to wash his hands, soaking the cloth and wiping down his face. Steve follows after, washing his face in handfuls of clear river water. They sit on the rocks watching the sky darken. On Main St the store owners light lanterns outside their doors to draw customers in. They watch the paper lanterns in Chinatown light up, a cluster of red and white orbs strung between the buildings.  
Steve leans on Bucky’s shoulder and swallows a yawn. Bucky gives him a gentle shove.  
“C’mon, Sheriff. On your feet.”  
Steve grumbles quietly, but gets up, following Bucky up to the road. He can see his house, big and empty and dark, but follows Bucky as he walks down the backroad to the Smithy. Bucky doesn’t comment as Steve falls into step beside him.  
They pass the Chinese quarter and Steve marvels at the paper lanterns swaying in the breeze.  
“What are they for?” he asks.  
Bucky watches him staring at the lights, his eyes crinkled though his mouth is a neutral line. “A light in the darkness,” he replies.  
They reach the Smithy, walking down the clearing at the side. Steve rubs at his eyes while Bucky unlocks the heavy wooden doors, circling the room and lighting each lantern in turn before tending to the forge. Steve drops his hat on the table and makes himself useful rinsing out the coffee pot and refilling it. He passes it over to Bucky, who tells him to sit his sorry arse down while he rakes the coals and sets the pot in the embers to boil.  
They sit in the hazy lantern light, occasionally breaking the silence with murmured conversation. Steve only means to close his eyes for a moment, and doesn’t see Bucky ease the half empty mug out of his unresisting hands. He doesn’t see Bucky shake off the blanket still left on the table from the previous night and tuck it around him. He doesn’t feel Bucky brush fingers through his hair, or hear the affectionate words he murmurs before blowing out all but one of the lanterns and going to bed.

Steve wakes up slowly, sitting up his his chair and knuckling at his eyes. He takes a moment to yawn and stretch and gets slowly to his feet, bundling up the blanket and putting it in the chair. He takes the lantern left on the table for him to the heavy wooden doors, turning the key in the lock and stepping outside.  
The sun is rising, fingers of light breaking through the trees in the distance. He goes to use the outhouse, and walks down to the paddock to see the horses. Bucky’s mare, her coat blue-grey in the morning light, comes over to nose at him for a scratch, and he obliges. He tells her about the house on the other side of town that he’s supposed to be living in, and how much he hates it. He scratches her behind the ears and finds himself wondering how long he can get away with falling asleep in Bucky’s home before the man stops tolerating it.  
The horse doesn’t have much advice to offer, so goes back to the Smithy. He washes out the coffee pot and refills it. He’s seen Bucky rake the fire enough times to try his hand at it, and sets the pot in the embers while he rinses out the mugs.  
The smell of coffee rouses Bucky, who wanders into the forge yawning and scratching his stomach, dressed in a coarse unbleached shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. Steve pours coffee, not watching as Bucky rolls up his sleeves. Not looking at the v of exposed skin at his throat, the line of his collarbone disappearing under the muslin.  
Bucky takes the offered coffee with a grateful sound, taking a seat and clutching it in both hands. He looks tired and worn.  
“Thank you,” Steve mutters awkwardly.  
Bucky smiles at him over the rim of his cup. “Like I keep saying, anytime.”  
“You feel up to breakfast?” Steve asks, thinking of the promise made the previous day.  
Bucky shakes his head and takes another sip of coffee.  
Steve looks at his table, at the sketches scattered across it; door handles and bolts and gates, elegant curls and spirals. “These are commissions?”  
Bucky nods absently. “A few, most are just… ideas. Folks round here just want cheap and functional.”  
Steve moves the drawings around. “Can I commission you for a piece? Sam needs a deputy badge.”  
Bucky yawns. “Sure. What d’you want?”  
Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. A star with ‘deputy’ written on it?”  
Steve brushes a thumb over his own star, plain silver with the cartwheel embossed on the underside.  
“Okay. Put it down the way you want it to look.”  
Steve gives him an odd look and Bucky sighs. “I don’t…” he waves his fingers in a small circle.  
“You can’t read,” Steve says slowly. Bucky nods, a bitter twist to his mouth.  
Steve takes a pencil and a scrap of paper, and carefully writes out DEPUTY before handing it over. Bucky looks at the word before handing it back.  
“Can you put a line underneath it so I know which way is up?” he asks, uncomfortable.  
Steve apologises and puts a firm pencil line underneath the word before handing it back. Bucky looks at it again before tucking it into his pocket.  
The silence that follows is painful, and Steve hates it.  
“I could teach you,” he says hesitantly. “If you wanted.”  
Bucky taps at the rim of his cup, and Steve thinks for a moment that he’s overstepped his bounds.  
“Alright,” Bucky says at last. “Come by later? If you fall asleep on me, I will drag you outside and dump you in the horse trough.”  
Steve laughs, the relief is so painful it hurts to breathe. “Deal.”  
He takes another scrap of paper and writes BUCKY on it, finishes with a line underneath and hands it over. “Lesson one. That’s you.”  
Bucky takes the scrap and holds it up to the light. “That’s me, huh?”  
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, watching the way he smiles, open and unguarded. “Bucky.”

Steve walks back into town, leaving Bucky to get on with his morning's work. Pietro is still on guard duty at the Hardware Store while Wanda sets up inside, and has no word on Sam, though Steve supposes that no news is good.  
He crosses the street to the hotel for breakfast, greeting Phil at the entrance.  
“Morning Phil, can I leave a letter with you for delivery?”  
Phil nods, and Steve takes the letter he wrote the previous day out of his pocket and puts it on the counter.  
“Is this the kin of those poor souls killed on the road?” Phil takes the envelope and tucks it into his mail slot. Steve nods.  
“A real shame,” Phil offers, and Steve resist the urge to point out that Phil didn’t attend the funeral.  
“It is,” he offers blandly instead.  
“And I have something for you.” Phil takes an envelope from one of the pigeonholes on his desk and hands it over. Steve looks at the return address; New York, and tucks it into his breast pocket unopened. The letter weighs heavy against his heart, reproachful.  
Steve goes to the dining room and fetches a plate and a cup of coffee. He doesn’t realise how hungry he is until he starts eating, and doesn’t look up from his plate until Clint drops into the seat opposite and starts wrapping up a pile of bacon in his handkerchief.  
“Strike it rich?” Steve asks, chewing on a crust of toast.  
Clint shakes his head. “Not yet,” he grins at Steve. “Always tomorrow, though.”  
Steve takes a long look at the man, forever covered in scrapes and bruises. “There’s been some signs of smallpox in camp,” he says, pitching his voice low to keep from being overheard. “Sam’s gone to Bell Fourche to get vaccine, should be back in a day or two.”  
Clint nods and chews on a piece of toast. “Thanks for the heads up.”  
Steve makes a dismissive gesture and drinks his coffee in companionable silence for a while.  
“You heard of a Jasper Sitwell?” Steve asks as Clint finishes his meal.  
“Sitwell?” Clint mops up egg yolk with his last piece of toast. “Yeah. Nasty piece of work.”  
“You ever had any incidents with him?”  
Clint shakes his head. “Word of mouth,” he says after a pause.  
“You know of a hotel in camp called the Star?”  
Clint frowns at him. “You mean the Lemurian Star?” he twists his mouth. “Down by Chinatown, opposite the Union.”  
Steve swallows the last of his coffee and picks his hat up from the table, sitting it squarely on his head. “Good hunting,” he says, touching his fingertips to the brim.

Steve crosses the street and checks in at the Hardware Store, spending a while helping Wanda carry heavy items out from the backroom and restock the shelves while she deals with customers. When trade quietens down he tells her he has work to be getting on with, and she shoos him out the door.  
Steve walks down the alley down the side of the Hardware Store and past the Union. In the row of wooden buildings between Chinatown and the bridge he finds one with a handwritten sign naming it the Lemurian Star.  
He pushes open the door and steps into a dimly lit room. There are table and chairs filled with a handful of silent, grim faced men playing cards. One looks up at Steve.  
“You lookin’ for a room?” he asks irritably.  
Steve shakes his head. “Looking for the manager.”  
The man puffs out his cheeks. “Reckon that’s me.”  
He doesn’t move from his seat, or stop playing his round of poker.  
“I’m looking for Jasper Sitwell.”  
The man coughs. “That piece of shit owes me rent. Walked out one night, never came back.”  
Steve frowns. “What happened to his room? His belongings?”  
The man laughs. “Sold ‘em. Had to make my money somehow.”  
Steve grits his teeth. “Where was he headed, last time you saw him?”  
The man smirks at him, displaying crooked yellow teeth. “The Red Room.”  
Steve takes a step back, and after a moment of hesitation, turns and walks out the door without another word. 

He stands in the middle of the street, his boots slowly sinking into the mud.  
The Red Room.  
He wonders what the hell Pierce is playing at, sending him running around town after a ghost story. He takes a slow, steady breath, and follows the breadcrumb trail to wherever it ends.  
Natasha is leaning on the porch, the willowy blonde next to her. She smirks when the Steve walks up.  
“Hey, Sheriff. You change your mind?” she teases.  
Steve scowls at her. “Jasper Sitwell.”  
Her face freezes for a split second before she recovers, forcing her features into something cold and indifferent. The blonde pales and takes a step back, she grips Natasha's shoulder, red painted nails digging into her flesh. Natasha shakes her off.  
“You’d better come in, then.”  
Steve follows her through the open doors, past the handful of women dressed in silk and lace that Steve doesn’t even spare a glance for, and to a backroom that passes for an office. There’s a couch and a couple of chairs, a side table littered with half empty bottles and a heavy iron safe. Natasha goes straight to the bottles and pours herself a glass of clear, resinous liquor.  
“Want a drink?” she asks as Steve pushes the door shut behind him. He shakes his head. She swallows the glassful and pours another. “Suit yourself.”  
Steve is done with running around. “Jasper Sitwell.”  
Natasha holds the liquor close to her mouth. “That’s what really matters, isn’t it. Not Laura, not Katie. You’re just like the rest of ‘em.”  
Steve takes a step closer and Natasha flinches, then braces herself as if for a blow. When it doesn’t come, she sits on the couch, her chin held high, her back straight.  
“Jasper Sitwell is dead.”

Natasha swirls the clear liquid in her glass. “We get all kinds of folk here, most lookin’ to dip their wick, some seeking comfort. But once in a while you get a man like Sitwell.” She glares at Steve. “It’s not about fucking for men like him. For men like him it’s…” she hesitates, and her features harden. “It’s riding one over the edge of the cliff.”  
Steve feels a chill, and reaches for a chair, unsteady on his feet.  
“And Sitwell couldn’t get off without…” Natasha swallows. “Without ‘ruining something beautiful’, he said.”  
“He’d done this before?” Steve whispers.  
Natasha shakes her head. “He said Pierce had been providing for him, but none of the latest girls took his fancy, so he came here. I didn’t know, at first.” She swallows her glassful of liquor. “He came in, well dressed and charming, and picked out two girls. Kate and Laura. I didn’t know. They go off to one of the rooms, and it’s all quiet. And Kate started screaming.” Natasha rolls the empty glass around in her hand. “So I go in. And Laura is in pieces. He had this filleting knife. Got me right in the gut.” She touches her left side, fingers tracing over the black lace of her bodice. “Nasty. Ended my career. Then Darcy came looking to see what the ruckus was about, and smart girl went running off for help.”  
“Why didn’t she go to the Sheriff?” Steve asks.  
Natasha laughs at him, ugly and bitter. “The Sheriff? The last Sheriff round here didn’t give a shit about us. Only cared about keeping in Pierce's good graces. Still got his throat cut.” Natasha gets to her feet, unsteady, and pours herself another glass of liquor. Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t spill a drop. “Anytime we’d send for him to deal with trouble he’d demand compensation in trade. He wasn’t gentle with the girls, neither.”  
“You kill him too?” Steve growls.  
“I didn't kill Sitwell,” Natasha snarls. “It was Barnes.”

For a moment the world stops spinning. If Steve was still standing his knees would have buckled. He shivers, shaking his head. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.  
He had asked Bucky, looked him right in the eyes and asked him. And Bucky had lied. Lied to him and given him a crooked little smile.  
“Darcy went to the Blacksmith. He. He came. Found Sitwell carving Katie into pieces. Neat, even slices. Caved his head in.”  
Natasha sits back down on the couch and folds her arms around her waist. “Wrapped him up and took him away. Never asked where. Katie and Laura we wrapped up as best we could. Hard to tell… who went where. The Preacher didn’t ask questions, but we buried them on the hill.”  
Natasha looks up at Steve, hunched over in his chair. Face pale. Hands shaking. “Doubt you care about them.”  
She runs her hands over her eyes and calls to one of the girls for tea, waiting silently until the blonde brings in two cups, eyeing the two of them warily before setting a tray with a teapot and two cups on the table and retreating. Natasha pours tea into each cup, adding a splash of milk and a lump of sugar to each. She picks one up and passes it over to Steve. He looks dumbly at the cup for a moment before accepting it.  
“How’d you find out?’ she asks quietly, cradling the plain china in the palm of her hand.  
“Pierce,” Steve murmurs.  
“Of course it was,” Natasha says wearily. She watches Steve take an unsteady sip of tea. “What are you going to do?”  
Steve shakes his head. “The law is the law.” He doesn’t look up, he can’t face her disappointment.  
“Let him run,” she whispers. soft, desperate. “If you’re gonna take him in, let me warn him, give him a chance to skip town. I owe him that.”  
Steve shakes his head, and sets his cup on the table. “Thank you for your time, Ms Romanov,” he says, stiff and distant.  
“Fuck you, Sheriff,” she hisses back.

Steve walks away. Walks away from the Red Room and down the road, ignoring the nods and greetings from passers by. With every step he feels a little colder, a little more distant, like he is leaving something behind with every step. His cracked and useless heart, perhaps. Falling away.  
He reaches the Smithy and walks up to the porch, he hammers on the wooden door and calls for Barnes, but there is no answer.  
He goes to the clearing around the side, looks down to the paddock where the blue-grey horse crops at the grass, the Andersen horse at her side. The heavy wooden doors are closed, but he bangs his fist against them anyway, calling out for the Blacksmith.  
No one comes.  
He reaches for the handle and pulls, and the door swings open. The forge is lit, the irons in the fire glowing orange and white.  
By the lantern's light he can see the body crumpled on the floor.


	5. Obstinacy and a Trunculent Disposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t let anyone tell you about hellfire,” Bucky murmurs, slow and ponderous. “Hell is cold. Cold an’ damp. And dark. Air so thick and sour you can’t breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ever fabulous (I'm not kidding here, have you seen her Peggy Carter cosplay? *fans self*) Superheroresin comissioned the equally talented Dean Draws to do a Blacksmith Bucky sketch! [Blacksmith Bucky](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/156187763315/speed-sketch-commission-for)  
> Dean regularly offers $15 speed sketches, which are an absolute bargain considering, go throw some money at them!
> 
> Thanks as ever to my beta Eidheann for poking at my words and making sure they don't wobble, and to DoubleOhWh00 for Horse Wrangling and moral support. 
> 
> Godli - noise  
> Dukh - hurt  
> Pani - water  
> padellepani - across the sea

Steve takes a cautious step closer, his boot knocking something small and bright across the floor. There’s sand scattered over the stones, a wooden tray overturned.  
The body is curled up, facing away from him, but Steve already knows, would know from the tangle of his dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders. Steve kneels down, placing a hand on the familiar muslin shirt, soaked in sweat, and gently pulls Bucky onto his back.  
He’s alive, but unconscious. His breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. There is blistering across his forehead, spreading down to the corners of his mouth, and Steve feels his heart crack open.  
“Bucky,” he whispers, pushing the sweat-damp hair off his face, trying not to touch the blisters, red raised bumps, their centres turning yellow. “Bucky, wake up.”  
Steve brushes fingers over Bucky’s features hesitantly, afraid to hurt him but unable to stop himself. His skin is feverish, hot and damp to the touch.  
Steve pulls Bucky, limp and unresponsive, into his lap, cradling him in his arms as best as he can.  
“C’mon, Bucky. Wake up,” he whispers, pleads.  
Bucky doesn’t open his eyes, but shudders and curls up closer to Steve, turning his face to his shoulder.

There is a hammering on the door and Steve’s head snaps up. He looks over at the doorway to see someone standing there, silhouetted by the late afternoon light.  
“What’s all the hollerin’?” the man asks.  
Steve recognises the man, he owns one of the nearby trading posts. Groceries, maybe, but he can’t be certain, can’t remember his name. Doesn’t care. Can’t think of anything but Bucky, shivering in his arms.  
“Get the doc,” he calls out, hoping that the man recognises his voice, because he has no intention of moving, no intention of doing anything but clinging to the man in his lap like his own stubbornness will keep his heart beating.  
The man hesitates. “That you, Sheriff?”  
Steve bares his teeth. “Yes, now get the fucking Doc!”  
He hears footsteps moving away, and prays to a god he long stopped believing in that he’ll come back with help.  
“ _Gudli_ ,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head.  
Steve cradles the back of Bucky's head. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”  
He doesn’t know how much time passes, how long he sits rocking them both back and forth. But there are hands on his shoulders, and a gentle voice telling him that it’s okay, he can let go now. Steve blinks, and the Doc kneels in front of him.  
“Let go, Sheriff. Let me take a look at him.” The Doc repeats, taking off his hat and setting it on the floor.  
Steve wonders how long the Doc has been repeating those words, how much time has been wasted trying to get Steve’s attention, and lays Bucky down on the cold stone. 

The Doc opens Bucky's eyes in turn, looking into them before letting them fall closed. He runs his fingertips behind his ears, under his chin. Steve fights back the urge to smack his hands away, and instead digs his fingernails into his palms until he draws blood.  
“Bring the lantern over?” the Doc asks softly, still speaking to Steve like a strange animal, wary and likely to strike.  
Steve gets to his feet, his knees popping and creaking, and picks the lantern up off the table. He looks to the forge, the coals ashy grey and cooling, then sets the lantern down beside the Doc and goes back to rake the coals and add more fuel.  
The Doc give him a brief nod. “That’s good, he needs to be kept warm.”  
“Bad luck to let the fire go out,” Steve answers flatly. He fetches the bellows and sets them to work, as he has seen Bucky do a dozen times.  
“Has he been sick?” the Doc asks, bending down to press his ear to Bucky's chest.  
Steve watches the coals catch and burn. He thinks back to Bucky and Pietro digging graves, how he’d been slow and short of breath. Remembers Bucky pushing his hair, damp with sweat, out of his eyes and turning down the offer of breakfast.  
“He’s been tired the last few days. Not eating.”  
Steve swears under his breath. he should have seen, should have said something, should have done something.  
The Doc presses his thumbs to Bucky's cheeks, easing his jaw open, and brings the light closer. “Lesions,” he mutters, tilting the lantern to get a better look. “ _Variola_ , from the Latin. Twelve days between contracting the disease and displaying actual symptoms. Presents as influenza; fever, muscle pain, headaches. Though with additional nausea and back pain.”  
Steve thinks of standing in the graveyard, their heads bowed, and wonders how much pain Bucky had been in. Why he hadn’t said anything.  
“By day twelve the _enanthem_ appear.” The Doc gently prods Bucky's tongue with a fingertip. “Spots on the tongue, in the mouth and throat. They spread rapidly, and twenty four hours later pustules appear on the face, spreading to the torso and limbs.”  
Steve closes his eyes. His head hurts. His heart hurts. “What are you saying?”  
“It’s smallpox.”  
Steve lets out a quiet, pained sound, stumbling over and dropping to his knees beside the Doc and reaching out to press his fingers into Bucky's tangled hair.  
“Sam’s due back any day now with vaccine,” Steve says, desperation creeping into his voice.  
“Won’t make a difference at this point. Disease has advanced. Only thing we can do is keep his fever down and let things run their course.”  
“What are his chances?” the words choke him, so Steve spits them out.  
The Doc slowly gets to his feet and picks up the lantern. “He’s strong. Stubborn as a mule, too. Maybe fifty-fifty.” The Doc looks around the room. “Maybe. Is there a bed in this place?”  
Steve points to the back room. “In there.” He ignores the Doc as he goes to check out the room, leaving the lantern in there when he returns. He ignores everything but the shivering form curled up on the cold stone floor beside him.  
“We need to move him to the bed.” The Doc grabs Bucky by the knees. “You take the stupid end.”  
Steve moves behind Bucky's head, wrapping his arms around his chest, elbows under the armpits, and waiting for the Doc to count to three before lifting him, carrying him awkwardly through to the backroom and laying him down, as carefully as they can. They still jolt him and he whimpers, mumbling under his breath. Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, makes reassuring noises until he settles again.  
“I can come check up on him, but he’ll need constant care,” the Doc tells him.  
“I’ll see to it,” Steve murmurs.  
“Sheriff...” the Doc's voice is gentle, placating. Steve sets his shoulders, daring the Doc to argue with him.  
“I’m not leaving him,” he snaps.  
The Doc rubs at his temple with his thumb and sighs. “Alright. Stubborn mules, the pair of you.” He gives Steve a rueful smile. “You need to keep the fever down, a cold cloth to the skin should bring relief. Don’t dump him in the river or anything stupid, the shock’ll most likely kill ‘im.”  
Steve nods. “Keep him cool, don’t let him get cold.”  
“Exactly. Try and get some water in him. Don’t overdo it, little and often. Cold broth if you have it.”  
“Understood.”  
The Doc gives him a shrewd look. “You an’ all. Eat, drink, get some goddamn sleep. You’re no use to him dead.”  
Steve bows his head. “Thank you, Doc.”  
The Doc sets his bowler hat firmly on his head and lets out an unconvinced hmpf noise. “I’ll try to come by twice a day, check on the pair of you. You get any lesions, any spots on your tongue, you tell me. Alright?”  
Steve nods, and the Doc gives him a stern look and taking his leave.

Steve scrubs his hands over his face and goes back into the forge, checking on the fire before searching out a suitable sized bowl and cloth. He spots a flash of silver on the floor, reflecting in the firelight and bends to retrieve it. It’s small, fits on the palm of his hand, crusted with sand. He wipes it clean with his thumb. A star, cast in silver. The word DEPUTY carefully embossed across it.  
Steve feels the corners of his mouth twitch downwards, feels a sharp, stinging pain in his throat, and tucks the badge into his pocket. He pushes the door open and walks outside. The sun is setting, the sky washed with copper. Steve doesn’t see it, doesn’t lean against the paddock fence and watch the stars come out, one by one. He checks on the horses and fetches water from the well, carrying the bucket inside. He washes out and fills the coffee pot and sets it in the embers of the fire, then rinses out a washcloth, fills the bowl with water and takes them to the backroom. His movements are functional, mechanical, focused on the task before him and nothing more.  
He sits on the edge of the bed and it doesn’t protest his weight. He unlaces Bucky’s boots, taking them off one at a time and setting them at the foot of the bed. The socks he puts to one side. He eases Bucky’s shirt off slowly, the loose fabric pulling away easily, and bundles it up with the socks. He leaves the work trousers, can’t bring himself to touch Bucky there. The clothes will all have to be burnt, whatever happens. All the clothes, the blankets, they’ll all have to go up in flames. Steve looks down at his own clothes, his rumpled shirt and mud spattered pants. They’ll need to be destroyed too. He carefully doesn’t think about funeral pyres.  
He dips the cloth in the water, wringing it out before wiping gently down Bucky’s arms, across his shoulders, over his stomach. He dips the cloth again, squeezes it out and drags it across Bucky’s forehead, across his temples, following the line of his jaw. Bucky murmurs, strange words slurring together, and Steve whispers to him in return.

Steve hears the soft scuff of the door opening, the echo of boots across the stone floor. He clears his throat, his voice sounds coarse and strange.  
“This… it’s quarantined,” he rasps.  
The footsteps stop in the doorway.  
“So I hear.”  
Steve lifts his head and sees Natasha stood in the doorway. He has no urge to talk to her, so turns back to Bucky, wringing out the cloth and pressing it to his skin.  
“Is he dying?” she asks bluntly.  
Steve shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, stubborn.  
“You’re that desperate to take him in?” Natasha sounds disgusted.  
Steve keeps his head down, rinsing out the cloth and pressing it to Bucky's scalp, water trickling into his hair. He doesn’t need to see her face. Whatever she thinks about him, it’s nowhere near as bad as what he thinks about himself.  
“Maybe it would be better if he did die,” Natasha murmurs. “Can’t arrest a corpse.”  
“Get out,” Steve growls.  
Natasha doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. She watches him in silence as he squeezes out the wash cloth and presses it to Bucky’s throat, hushing him when he whimpers.  
“That’s not why I’m here,” he says finally.  
Steve presses the back of his hand to Bucky’s forehead, hot and clammy. He dips the wash cloth in the bowl of water and starts again.  
“Why are you here?” Natasha asks softly.  
Steve doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

Steve rakes the coals and adds more fuel, keeping the fire burning. He can’t shake the fear that if the fire dies, so will Bucky, so he tends to the flames as best as he can, lacking Bucky’s deft touch.  
He rinses out the coffee pot and refills it, sets it in the embers and goes outside to fetch more water. The sky is dark enough to see the stars, but with a pale edge to the sky above the distant line of trees. He sees to the horses and draws water from the well before returning to the Smithy.  
He pours himself coffee and rinses out the washcloth before he refills the water bowl, taking them both to the back room. He sits down on the edge of the bed and brushes the soaked cloth across Bucky's mouth, trickling water between his lips.  
Bucky swallows involuntarily. “ _Dukh_ ,” he murmurs.  
Steve shushes him, setting the cloth to his mouth again.  
Bucky dozes fitfully, his sleep troubled by bad dreams. He doesn’t wake fully, in his rare moments of consciousness he is delirious, clutching at Steve’s arms and muttering in his odd, lilting language, his voice hoarse, the words slurring together. Steve tries to soothe him, stroking fingers through his damp hair, hands brushing down his arms until he calms again.  
The sound of Steve's voice seems to soothe him in his distressed state. At some point, between the first day and the second, Steve starts talking. He talks about his mother, about watching her die slowly, choking on blood. He talks about the years that followed, purposeless and empty. About the army, the promise of fighting the good fight, of honour and brotherhood. He’d believed in the cause, believed that all men were equal. He believed in the union, until they put guns in the hands of boys and told them to kill each other. He had believed in the army, until he saw the incompetence in his superior officers, watched them send untrained, disorganised men to their deaths, again and again. Cut down like sheaves of wheat by a terrible machine.  
He had been so idealistic once, he tells the sleeping form beside him. Had been so certain of what was right. He had clung to the word of the law like it was a bible.  
When he runs out of words he feels drained, emptied. It is oddly liberating.  
Steve watches Bucky sleeping, listens to his slow, even breaths, and finally takes his letter from New York out of his coat pocket.  
The envelope is crumpled, and he smooths it flat on his lap, straightening the edges and tracing his fingers across the neat copperplate script. He tucks his thumb under the flap and tears it open, pulling out the single folded sheet of paper inside. He lets the envelope fall to the floor, and opens the letter.

_August 1872_

_Captain Rogers,  
Congratulations on your new position. I’m going to make a wild assumption that you’ve managed to not get yourself killed by Indians, bandits or rattlesnakes. Don’t disappoint me, boy._

_All is well at camp, we’re training new recruits. The people they send me, Rogers, I swear to the Almighty._

_With regard to your enquiry, as follows._  
Barnes, James. Sergeant. 69th New York Infantry aka ‘The Irish Brigade’. Served 1861-1865.  
Migrated from England to US in ‘54. Lived in Williamsburg before enlisting.  
I had a word with his CO. Said he was reliable, hard working, all the rest. Not Irish, but got on well with them. Says if you’re looking for a fellow to have your back, you wouldn’t do better. Also said ‘vaugh a ballaugh’ if that means anything. 

_Try not to get yourself killed, boy.  
Col. C. Phillips_

Steve reads the letter twice before crumpling it up and tossing it in the fire. 

Steve is half-dozing, sat on the floor by the bed, his head resting on the mattress at Bucky’s hip, when he hears footsteps. He looks up to see a strange woman walking into the room, a lidded porcelain bowl in her hands. She’s small, older than him but wiry, her long black hair plaited and draped over one shoulder. Steve doesn’t doubt that, for her small size, she could still kick his ass.  
For a moment he thinks he must be dreaming, then he finally comes to his senses, and carefully gets to his feet.  
“You must be May,” he says slowly.  
The woman doesn’t answer, just holds out the lidded bowl with one hand. Her expression wary and defiant.  
Steve reaches out and takes the bowl with both hands, his movements slow and careful more out of concern for dropping it and causing offence than anything.  
He lifts the delicately painted lid and sees the bowl is filled with clear broth, a handful of twigs and berries and slices of roots floating in it. He closes the lid, jostling the shallow, flat bottomed spoon resting in the bowl.  
“Is this for Bucky?” he asks, gesturing to the bowl, and then turning to point to the bed, where Bucky is lost to fever dreams.  
The woman speaks suddenly, her voice a shock in the quiet Smithy. Steve nods dumbly, not understanding a word, until she has said her piece.  
She looks at him expectantly.  
“Yes, Ma'am,” Steve offers. The woman, May, gives him a firm nod and turns on her heel, striding away while Steve sits on the edge of the bed, still cradling the bowl in his hands.

There is a knock at the door.  
“Quarantine,” Steve calls out.  
“I heard,” Sam answers.  
The door is propped open to let air circulate, and Sam peers inside.  
“Doc stuck me with a pin, so I reckon I’m safe to come in,” he says with a cautious smile.  
Steve still comes out to meet him and Sam pulls him into a fierce hug, clapping him on the back before holding him out at arm's length.  
Sam takes a long look at Steve, and he tries not to shift under the gaze, knowing full well that Sam has never seen him anything other than neatly pressed, like he’d stepped out of one of those mail order catalogues. Steve isn’t even wearing a coat, dressed in a rumpled, soot stained shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  
Sam frowns. “You look like shit.”  
“Oh, sweet talker,” Steve mutters. “So I take it you got the vaccine. Any trouble on the road?”  
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Sam shrugs. “Doc said you’d holed up here with Barnes.”  
Steve nods. “Quarantine. Couldn’t risk passing it on.”  
Sam gives him a doubtful look. “And that’s the only reason you’re here, huh?”  
Steve looks away. It’s not a discussion he feels ready for. “Can you see to the vaccinations, make sure everyone gets treated?” he asks instead.  
Sam nods. “Already taking care of it.”  
“Thank you.”  
“The Doc said you needed food,” he reaches into the satchel he has slung over one shoulder and pulls out a loaf of bread wrapped in butcher's paper. “I’m not supposed to leave until I’ve seen you eat.” Sam gives him a smirk. “So eat.”  
Steve accepts the bread, tearing off a corner and shoving it in his mouth, putting the rest of the loaf on the table. “Can I get you some coffee?”  
Sam looks closer at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the grey tone to his skin.  
“Steve, you need to get some rest. When was the last time you slept?”  
Steve swallows and tears off another chunk of bread. “I’m fine, I took a nap.”  
“Uh-huh?” Sam folds his arms across his chest. “In a chair? When was the last time you slept in a bed?”  
Steve shakes his head. He’s too tired and sore and scared to dance around the subject anymore. “I don’t know, New York?”  
Sam swears under his breath. “Go home, Steve. Get some sleep, clean yourself up.”  
Steve shakes his head. “I can’t leave him.” He shoves another chunk of bread in his mouth and chews.  
“What, you think he’s going to run off?” Sam snaps. “I’ll stay and keep an eye on him.”  
Steve folds his arms across his chest, stubborn and proud. “I’m not leaving.”  
“Go home,” Sam growls.  
“It’s not-” Steve catches himself raising his voice and takes a slow breath before speaks again, quieter if not calmer. “I need to be here, Sam.”  
“This is Seven Pines all over again,” Sam sighs, knowing full well that arguing will only make Steve dig in his heels. He also knows that although Steve is reckless, stubborn and proud, he’s also smart, with a good heart, and never does anything without a good reason, if not good sense. “Tell me what you need.”  
“I need you to keep on top of things in town, just for a little while.”  
“And how long is a little while?”  
Steve hesitates. “A week, maybe? Doc says either way we’ll know by then.”  
“You gonna explain what’s going on?”  
Steve tears off another piece of bread. “I made a mistake. I… almost made a mistake. I let myself get played by Pierce and…” he rubs his hands over his stinging eyes. He’s so damned tired he can’t get his thoughts in order. “It doesn’t matter.” He lets out a bitter little laugh. “I got so wrapped up solving a murder, I didn’t see what mattered.”  
Sam frowns. “A murder?”  
Steve gives him a weary smile. “A while back a man did some killing, got himself killed for it. I don’t see any point in pursuing it.” He drops the piece of bread back on the table.  
Sam lets out a low whistle. “Steve Rogers are you letting something go? You must be sick.”  
He reaches a hand to Steve’s forehead to check for fever and Steve bats it away.  
“Alright. I’ve seen you eat, I can tell the Doc that much at least,” Sam gives Steve another searching look. “You need anything else?”  
“Books, or something to read. My journal, it should be at the house.”  
“I’ll swing by tomorrow then, check up on you both.” Sam gives him a glare. “When your man is back on his feet we will be having a talk. Don’t think this conversation is over.”  
Steve nods. “Thank you Sam,”  
As Sam is walking out the door Steve remembers the star in his pocket and calls after him. He pulls the piece of silver out and holds it out. “This is yours.”  
Sam stares at the star for a moment before taking it. “Seriously?”  
“Yeah,” Steve gives him an awkward smile.  
“Barnes made this for me?” Sam looks surprised. He pins the star to his lapel, tugging his jacket straight. “How do I look?” He tilts his head. “Dashing?”  
“Looking good,” Steve tells him.  
Sam grins at him, easy and bright. “Damn right.”

The Doc comes by in the morning to check over them both, and declares that medical science has underestimated the merits of being too damn stubborn to die when you’re supposed to. He concludes that Barnes will probably live.  
Steve lets his head drop, relieved and exhausted.  
“Thank you, Doc,” he says softly.  
The Doc pokes curiously at the most recent bowl of twigs and broth that May has brought for them and mumbles under his breath, the odd words that Steve manages to catch are surprisingly tender as the Doc gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s good you boys look out for each other.”  
Before Steve can work out how to answer, the Doc picks up his hat and leaves.  
Sam comes by mid morning with a package of ham sandwiches, making Steve eat one before filling him in on the news in town. There’s little to report, the vaccination progressing well enough, and several messages and well wishes from townsfolk.  
Sam goes back to work when the sandwiches are gone, leaving a couple of books and a warning that there will be further visitations.

Steve puts down his journal and pencil and fetches fresh water. He sits down on the edge of the bed, picking up the washcloth and shaking off the excess water before he runs the cloth across Bucky’s forehead.  
“ _Pani_ ,” the man rasps, turning his head.  
Steve brushes the cloth over his mouth, holds it against his lips and squeezes, watching Bucky swallow.  
“I don’t understand,” Steve tells him patiently. Bucky’s eyelids twitch and open. His eyes glassy and unfocused.  
“Steve?”  
Steve nods, trickling more water into his mouth. Bucky has said his name before, shivering in his arms. He doesn’t allow himself to be hopeful.  
“You were dreaming,” Steve tells him. “You’re in Parasapa.”  
“ _Pahá Sápa_ ,” Bucky sighs.  
“Páha Sápa,” Steve repeats slowly. The words rhythmic and strange. “Is that the Indian name?”  
“I was... On a ship,” Bucky murmurs. “Liverpool. _Padallepani_.”  
Steve rinses out the cloth, sets it to Bucky’s mouth.  
Bucky swallows the trickle of water and closes his eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell you about hellfire,” he murmurs, slow and ponderous. “Hell is cold. Cold an’ damp. And dark. Air so thick and sour you can’t breathe.”  
Steve wipes Bucky’s brow, drawing the cloth down his throat on slow motions.  
“Stacked like cargo… In the storms... we’d get tossed about in the dark. Water up to your ankles. Like we were sinking.” His voice, low and rough, cracks.  
“It’s alright,” Steve does his best to soothe. “You’re alright.”  
“Cunninghams got sick first. Shit and bile. Spread. People dead in hours. Dead in days. They tossed the bodies overboard.”  
Steve lets the washcloth drop into the bowl. The bed is small, the fit is tight, But he rolls Bucky onto his side and curls up behind him, tucking his knees to the back of Bucky’s calves, his booted feet hanging over the foot of the bed. He spreads his fingers over Bucky’s ribs, painfully stark, presses his forehead between his shoulder blades.  
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “You made it across the ocean.”  
Bucky reaches back, hand fumbling against Steve’s crumpled woolen pants, his cotton shirt, the roll of his sleeve. Touching his forearm, his wrist, the back of his hand, before lacing their fingers together and pulling Steve’s hand to his chest. He curls his fingers and presses Steve’s hand to his heart. His pulse steady and strong.  
“America across the water,” he murmurs and falls asleep.

Steve wakes up slowly. He drifts, warm and restful. It feels like home.  
Things occur to him slowly, one by one. The solid weight he is pressed against. Bare skin. The steady heartbeat thumping against the palm of his hand. The calloused thumb tracing along his fingers, moving slowly up and down his index finger, circling the knuckle before trailing up to the fingertip again. The thumbnail tickles and he twitches.  
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is sore, a low rasp.  
Steve should get up. Should fetch water and check on the horses. He presses his cheek against Bucky’s back and listens to his heart, the rhythm matching his own.  
“You were dreaming,” he says quietly. “You were on a ship. There was an outbreak of cholera.”  
Bucky’s fingers still. “Haven’t thought of that in years,” he croaks.  
Steve feels Bucky shake his head, feels the shift of his body as he traces fingers along the small, round blisters covering his skin. The backs of his hands, his arms, his legs and his face are worst affected. Bucky lets out a soft, pained sound.  
“You got sick,” Steve tries to keep the disapproval out of his voice. “You didn’t tell me.”  
“Cost me my good looks,” Bucky utters ruefully.  
The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch up. He presses his smile to a patch of unmarred skin. “You’re still pretty. Doc says they’re healing up.”  
“I’ll have scars,” Bucky croaks, his voice is thick.  
“Pretty scars,” Steve promises. There are blisters scattered across Bucky’s back. Yesterday they were raised and hard to the touch. Now they are flatter, slowly drying out.  
Bucky brushes the tips of his fingers against Steve’s wrist. “How long you been here?”  
Steve tries to count the days, the frantic, desperate first handful, when he feared that every breath would be Bucky’s last, the exhausted blur of routine that followed. There is a handful of books on the floor by the bed, next to his journal. _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_ he had finished a few days ago. They were part way through _Great Expectations._  
“A week, maybe? Two at most.”  
Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, low and rumbling, before falling asleep again. Steve tugs the blankets around them, presses his hand over Bucky’s heart, and drifts off.

In a few short days, despite Steve’s protests, Bucky was on his feet, albeit unsteadily. The first thing he did when he finally forced his way out of bed was check on the forge, and the sight of the coals burning had struck him still and silent, his eyes bright while Steve hastily apologised for his limited skills as a stoker.  
“ _Parrakavvo tut_ ,” he had muttered, his voice thick.  
“I don’t know what that means,” Steve had told him.  
“You kept it burning,” Bucky rubbed a knuckle across his eye. “Thank you. Means thank you.”  
When the Doc had prodded the last flaking crusts that covered Bucky’s skin, brushing them away to reveal pale scar tissue, he declared him well.  
“Barnes,” he sighed. “You are a testament to the healing powers of obstinacy and a truculent disposition.”  
He left with instructions to take it easy for a few weeks, and avoid dying in general.

Peggy and Angie arrive the following morning with a bundle of clean clothes and blankets. Bucky grumbles quietly as they set Steve to work, making him drag the mattress and all their clothing and bedding out into the clearing for burning, the bed broken down and added to the pile. He takes greater offense at being forced to take a bath. It’s only the threat of being thrown into the river that makes him finally strip down and climb into the tin bath that Angie has positioned in the Smithy and filled with water heated on the forge. Angie has little in the way of nurturing skills, scrubbing soap into his tangled hair while he swears and splashes her with water.  
Steve has to make do with a bar of soap and the creek on the other side of the paddock, Peggy watching over him in case he slips and falls. At least that’s her story.  
Bucky sulks with the horses while Angie gets Steve to scrub down the walls in the forge, bucket after bucket of sooty, greasy water thrown out onto the street.  
Steve feels guilty about the bed, so takes Peggy to one side and asks her to get Sam to bring a bed down from his place across town. Peggy gives him an odd look, which only increases when he tries to explain that he’s not using it anyway.  
By sunset Sam arrives with a horse and cart, whatever questions he has he manages to keep to himself. Between the two of them they manage to maneuver the wrought iron bed through the heavy wooden doors and into position in the back room. The lantern light catches the cartwheel design on the frame, embossed along the rail and in the curved design of the bed head. He presses his fingers to the spoked wheel and smiles to himself.  
Sam tells to stop dawdling and help him move the mattress.

Steve thanks everyone for their help and sends them home, Sam giving Peggy and Angie a ride home in the cart, which they find delightful. Steve can hear them laughing as they disappear into the evening.  
He fetches a lantern and goes down to the paddock, where Bucky is still sat on the fence, rubbing his fingers absently over the circular scars scattered across his forehead. Steve hangs the lantern from one of the slats and rests his elbows on top of the fence, watching the horses, asleep on their feet.  
“They’re trying to help,” Steve says quietly..  
Bucky hums to himself. “I know. I ain’t mad.” He sighs, his breath whisping in the evening chill. “Just thinking.”  
Steve pulls his new jacket a little tighter around his chest. Tomorrow he will pin his silver star to the lapel and go back to work. Tomorrow.  
“What’s winter like out here?” Steve asks, fighting the urge to lean closer to Bucky, to feel the weight of him, the warmth of him seeping through his clothes.  
“Cold,” Bucky answers. “Snow. The river will keep flowing but the creek down by the horses will freeze up.” He pushes his hair, damp and clean, out off his eyes. “Beautiful though, up in the hills. Never saw much snow as a kid. We had rain and ice and slush. Tough on the horses.”  
They watch the stars come out, one by one.  
“Peggy brought some stew, you feel up to eating?” Steve offers when the sun has passed out of sight.  
Bucky climbs down from the fence. “Yeah. I could eat.”  
They walk back to the forge by the light of the lantern, shoulders brushing, voices low.


	6. Eggs and Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this where I ask how much?” Pierce asks, his eyes glittering. “How much for your service?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shukka - beautiful  
> Bori rai - Big man

Steve pins the silver star to his lapel and returns to town.  
He left Bucky tending to the horses, rolling his eyes when Steve had reminded him to take it easy and shooing him away like an irritating fly.  
Steve walks down the road, nodding and exchanging greetings with townsfolk curious to see the Sheriff up and about. More than one person tells him they assumed he was dead.  
He pauses when he comes to the Red Room, Natasha leaning on the porch railing as usual. They hadn’t exchanged another word since the night Bucky collapsed, through she had come by on occasion, to bring food or hot broth, leaving it on the table to be found later. Steve rarely noticed her visits, too distracted with his concern, something that did not go unnoticed, and he still hadn’t answered her question.  
He had thought about it, thought of nothing else those long nights when he feared every laboured breath would be Bucky’s last.  
_Why are you here?_ She had asked him. He had, thus far, been unable to answer, save that it was an instinct that ran deep in his flesh, sunk into his bones.  
Even now, the distance plucked at his skin. After more than a week of being in Bucky's constant presence, of sleeping and waking and reading and eating at his side, listening to the shape of his breaths, his absence is unsettling. Like listening out for the twin thumps of a heart beat and hearing only one.  
Natasha nods to the Sheriff, watching him warily as he hesitates. “Can I help you with anything, Sheriff?” she calls out, keeping her voice light.  
Steve shakes his head, watches the tension in her shoulders lessen.  
“You sure?” Natasha looks at him warily. “Pair of pretty girls take your interest?”  
“No, I don’t think so,” Steve gives her a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t be interested in them at all.”  
Natasha tilts her head and gives him a cautious smile, and something fragile hovers around her eyes before it gets blinked away. “See you around, Sheriff.”  
“Steve,” he answers, taking the left hand fork to the Doc's. “My friends call me Steve.”

Steve knocks on the door at the Doc’s place, pushing it open when a muffled voice calls him to come in. He pushes his way past the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, finding the Doc sat at his desk grinding herbs in a pestle and mortar. He kicks a chair out for Steve to sit at, tipping the powdered herbs into an envelope and sealing it.  
“Morning, Doc.”  
The Doc grunts at him. “How’s your idiot?”  
Steve snorts. “Up and about. I don’t think he’s familiar with the idea of convalescence.”  
“Sheriff, I wouldn’t go complaining about folks being stubborn. Glass houses an’ all that.”  
“Fair point,” Steve concedes. “How did the vaccinations go?”  
The Doc shrugs. “Well enough. We had a quarantine area set up on the land opposite Nick's place.”  
Steve nods. Sam had told him about the quarantine tents away from the rest of the town folks. Abraham had cared for the sick along with a handful of volunteers. Soon the tents would be taken down and burned along with the bedding and pallets inside.  
“Any casualties?” Steve asks.  
“Seven, in total.” Steve bows his head, and the Doc leans forward and strikes the table in front of him with his pestle, making Steve jump. “Before you go getting thoughts about those souls weighing on your conscience, bear in mind it would have been ten times that if you hadn’t raised the money for treatment, if you hadn’t sent Sam off to get vaccine when you did.” The Doc waves the pestle at him. “And Barnes would’ve been the first. You hear me?”  
“I hear you,” Steve says softly. “Thank you, Doc.”  
The Doc makes a mollified noise and settles back into his chair. “Well, I’m a busy man. If you’re not currently dying, go away.”  
Steve huffs and gets to his feet. He lifts a finger to touch the brim of his hat, then remembers that it got burned up with the rest of the clothes he’d been wearing while Bucky was sick. He gives the Doc a smart little salute instead, wishing him a good day before leaving him in peace.

He spends the morning helping Sam out at the Hardware Store, catching up on the town news. With the smallpox outbreak there had been an increase in opportunistic theft, and a number of people had chosen to leave town before the disease struck, loading up their wagons and moving on to the next settlement along the trail. Steve didn’t begrudge them, he’d seen whole towns wiped out by disease during the war, people already weakened by hunger and poverty with no fight left in them.  
Life had not sat and waited patiently for him while he had been at Bucky’s bedside, duties piling up at the end of the Counter in the Hardware Store. It makes Steve's heart sink a little to see the bundle of letters and messages waiting for him, and he still has to sort out the Jailhouse, a shuttered building next to the Livery that has been set aside for the purpose. He rubs a hand over his eyes and starts sorting through the messages.  
Most are no longer relevant, petty squabbles and misdemeanors. He takes his journal out of his coat pocket, quickly flicking through the pages, past the sketches of horses in the paddock and a blanket wrapped figure curled up asleep, and makes a list.  
Half of the messages are from Pierce, vague enquiries that are far too informal for Steve's liking.  
He writes a short note to Col. Phillips thanking him for the letter and assuring him that he is, for the time being, still alive.  
He spends the rest of the day walking a circuit around town, working through his list. Mostly the issues are minor and easily dealt with, either through reason or intimidation, though it is dark before he has finished.  
Steve decides to leave Pierce for the morning, and calls an end to his day.

He walks through the streets, nodding to passers-by and the men gathered outside the saloons and gambling dens. His feet are heavy as he passes the Doc’s place, passes the Hardware Store, closed up for the night, Pietro sat in a chair with his feet on the railings, a loaded shotgun across his lap. He gives Steve a salute as he walks past, which Steve returns.  
His limbs feel leaden as he walks up the path to his front door, fumbling the key out of his pocket and unlocking it, pushing his way into the cold, empty house.  
No one has been there for days, not since Sam came to collect a replacement bed. The walls, the floors, the air itself has the coldness of a place unlived in, deserted.  
He walks to the bedroom and takes off his gun belt, setting it down on the floor by the bed. There are still ashes in the grate, so he picks up the poker from the floor where it has lain, gathering dust, and rakes through the debris. He sweeps up the ashes, taking them out back while he collects firewood from the stockpile leaning against the side of the house.  
He builds a fire in the grate, setting it alight and watching the kindling catch, splinters of wood blackening and curling in the flames.  
_This is not home_ , he thinks to himself.  
He takes off his coat, pulling the journal out of his pocket and dropping it on the floor by his chair. He takes off his jacket, laying it out on the bed beside his overcoat. He picks up a pencil from his dresser and wraps himself up in his travelling blanket, sitting in the chair and picking up the journal. He flicks through the pages, taking time to look through his sketches. _Rakli_ , Bucky’s sweet-natured mare, cropping at the long grass. The creek at the end of the paddock. A detail of a hand, pitted with scars and small, round blisters. A sparrow perched on the lip of the well. A wide mouth, curled up at the corner. A washcloth and bowl. Bucky, wrapped in a blanket, asleep.  
He brushes his fingers across the pages. _Home_.

Steve wakes up feeling stiff and cold, the fire in the grate long since burned out. He stares at the charred edges of firewood in a circle around the cold ashes, and thinks of Bucky, wrapped in a blanket, coaching him through fire building. _Air and fuel_ , his low, sweet voice murmuring. _Pine spits, Elm sulks. Ash and Oak to warm your feet, Apple and Pear to warm your heart._  
He gets to his feet, slow and stiff, making his way through the house like a lost spirit.  
He pushes his way out the back door and walks to the yard, fallen leaves crunching beneath his boots. He pokes at the outhouse door and nothing jumps out at him, spiders retreat into the shadows and wait for him to do his business and leave.  
He watches the river flowing past, and tries to imagine horses in the yard. The image is hazy, indistinct, and he goes back inside to wash and change his shirt.  
He dresses with care, though the motions don’t bring him the comfort they used to. The shirt feels stiff, the waistcoat constricting. He fastens the buckle on the gunbelt, feeling the weight of his pistols against his hips, heavy and strange after weeks without wearing them. He pulls on his coat and brushes his thumb over the silver star pinned over his heart. He slides his thumb against the underside of the badge, feeling the cartwheel against his skin, and feels the disquiet in his body settle slightly.  
He squares his shoulders and goes out to meet the day.

Steve locks the front door and walks across the street down to the Hotel. Phil looks up from his desk and gives him a wary smile.  
“Sheriff? Are you… well?”  
Steve forces himself to smile politely. “Good morning, Mr Coulson. I was never sick.” He hands over his money and goes to the dining room, fetching himself a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast. He nods to his fellow diners, wishing them good morning before taking a seat.  
Sam arrives shortly after, joining Steve with his own plate of eggs and bacon.  
“You get caught up yesterday?” Sam asks, digging into his breakfast.  
“Most of it, few more things to see to,” Steve mulls over his coffee.  
“Because Pierce sent someone round asking for you,” Sam frowns. “Making vague statements alluding to a previous conversation.”  
Steve sighs. Sam is being patient, he knows that. “You remember the conversation we had about… letting something go?’  
Sam nods. “Kind of hard to forget.”  
“Pierce approached me about a missing man. In my investigations I…” Steve hesitates, searching carefully for the right words. “Uncovered information that could have been… harmful to some people in town. If acted upon.”  
Sam looks at him closely. “Would one of these people be Barnes, by any chance?”  
Steve tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying it. “Why, though? If he already knew what happened, why send me on a search?”  
“To keep you busy? To get rid of them?” Sam offers.  
Steve shrugs. His thoughts wander in the silence, drifting until they settle on a familiar figure, bent over an anvil, hammering hot iron before putting it back into the coals.  
“Hey, Steve?” Sam says quietly. Steve blinks and shakes his head. “Lost you there for a minute.”  
“Yeah. Sorry,” Steve mutters. “Was just… Heat and force.”  
Sam frowns. “Come again?”  
“Heat and force,” Steve brushes a thumb across his lower lip. “That’s how you bend iron.”

Steve finishes his coffee and walks with Sam down to the Hardware store. Wanda tosses a new hat at him as he walks through the door. It’s much like his old one, dark felt with a wide brim, and he sets it firmly on his head with a murmur of thanks before venturing out into the world.  
He stops by Maria's first. The gambling den is quiet this early in the day. A handful of people playing poker at the tables. He finds Maria hunched over the bar, drinking coffee.  
Steve can’t help but like Maria, smart and small and fierce. She runs a tight operation and keeps a close eye on her patrons, for whom she has little affection and even less respect. They seem to like the way she talks to them, laughing off her insults. If anyone does have trouble brushing off her barbed remarks, they’ll find a half dozen prospectors willing to take them outside and reeducate them.  
Maria fetches a second cup from under the bar, fills it with thick, tarry coffee and shoves it across the counter. “Sheriff.”  
He takes the cup and takes a sip. Maria favours French roasted coffee, which, to Steve’s jaded palette, is more or less the clinker that Bucky rakes out of the forge doused in hot water. Oily and bitter, it sets his teeth on edge. He drinks it anyway.  
“You wanted to see me?”  
“Rollins was in here the other night,” Maria refils her coffee cup. “Making noise about Indians on the road to Black Hills."  
“Something happen?” Steve asks quickly, his thoughts turning to wreckage across a hillside.  
Maria shakes her head. “Not that I’ve heard so far. Think he was just trying to stir shit up. Luckily for me these fellers only get motivated by an increase in the price of whiskey.” There is a susurrus of complaints from the tables. “Settle down, dumbasses. But if Rollins is in town, that means Rumlow’s not far behind.”  
“And that’s a problem?”  
Maria smirks. “Rumlow hates you. Says he’s gonna kill you himself.”  
Steve pauses, his cup halfway to his lips “Well, better men than him have tried,” he says finally.  
“Well, he was Confederate, so you were never gonna be best pals.”  
Steve swallows the last of his coffee and suppresses a grimace. “Anything else while I’m here?”  
She grins at him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”  
“Well, thank you for your time.” He touches two fingers to the brim of his new hat.  
She watches him walk toward the door before speaking up. “Try not to get killed, Sheriff. Blacksmith was a miserable cuss before you came along.”  
Steve has no idea how to answer her, so just nods and mutters something indistinct.

Steve straightens his jacket and walks across town to The Union, nodding and wishing good morning to the people he passes. He doesn’t hesitate at the door, marching straight in.  
The saloon is quiet, a few people playing dice, a couple of girls lounge at one of the tables playing cards. Pierce sits at the bar, dressed in his red velvet frock coat. He gets to his feet when he sees Steve approaching and holds his arms out wide.  
“The prodigal son returns! I thought you lost to us, or are you still playing nursemaid to a pikey?”  
Steve feels his hands ball into fists and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.  
Pierce smiles at him, sharp and ruthless. “Touched a nerve?” he gestures to one of the girls. “Coffee?”  
Steve shakes his head. Pierce orders coffee anyway, leading the way to a table over to one side of the saloon, taking a seat in one of the velvet cushioned chairs and gesturing for Steve to do the same.  
“I’d prefer to stand,” Steve growls.  
Pierce looks amused, waiting for the girl to return with a silver tray laden with a matching set of coffee pot, sugar bowl and milk jug, and two delicate china cups. She places each item on the polished wooden table, her fingers trembling as Pierce smiles at her encouragingly. He thanks her and she skitters away.  
Steve stares at the coffee set and remembers Natasha’s plain china cradled in his hands, the aroma of sweetened tea.  
“You sure you don’t want coffee?” Pierce asks, his expression kind and obliging.  
Steve shakes his head, and watches as Pierce pours himself a black coffee. He doesn’t touch the cream and sugar.  
“Some weeks ago I spoke to you with regard to my colleague and his disappearance. I had hoped that I would have heard back from you before now.”  
“I pursued the enquiry, but an outbreak of smallpox became the town's priority.” Steve replies stiffly.  
“And was it in the town's interest to spend your time playing Lady of the Lamp?” Pierce smiles kindly at Steve, playing the concerned father. “Is that what you’re paid for?”  
Steve grinds his teeth together. “It was done in my own interests,” he answers slowly. “And, thus far, I am not paid for my role as Sheriff. When this town forms itself a government, when elections take place, the situation may well change. But for now, I am the Sheriff, and my service is voluntary.”  
“Is this where I ask how much?” Pierce asks, his eyes glittering. “How much for your service?”  
Steve swallows, tastes salt and copper, and shakes his head.  
Pierce shakes his head. “Now, now. Don’t come the righteous lawman with me. I offer you a sum of money, and you act offended. I keep things vague, you play naive.” Pierce tuts at him. “How about I make myself clear, Sheriff? Maybe you don’t want my money, but there are many other things I can offer.” He sits back, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “A fire in the Hardware Store? At night, while that poor girl is sleeping? Indians attacking the Deputy while he’s out doing sterling work.” He pauses, looking at Steve closely. “Your Blacksmith is still weak from his illness. It would be a tragedy for him to slip and crack his head open on that big anvil of his.”  
Steve lurches forward, slamming his hand down on the table. Coffee slops onto the polished wood and Pierce flinches, the slightest flicker of his eyes. It’s enough.  
“I pursued the enquiry. Jasper Sitwell was not a well liked man. He went looking for trouble, and trouble found him. As far as I am concerned, justice has been served.”  
Steve straightens up. “The matter is closed.”  
Pierce slowly lowers his coffee cup and sets it on the table, spilled coffee soaking into his sleeve. “Well. We know where we stand.”  
“Good day, Mr Pierce,” Steve says quietly, and walks away, keeping his right hand resting on his pistol until he is out on the street.

Steve doesn’t run. He wants to, but he keeps his movement slow and casual, nodding to the people who pass him on the street as he walks past Chinatown, heading north.  
His hands are shaking, his movements stiff, like his knees could give out at any moment. He doesn’t look at the Red Room as he walks past, crossing the street to the Smithy.  
He walks past the porch leading up to the front door, along the clearing to the side doors. They’re open wide, and Steve can hear the rhythmic, percussive sound of Bucky at work, and something settles in his chest.  
He takes a slow, silent step through the doorway, taking off his wide brimmed hat and holding it to his chest, as if it could quiet his heart. He follows the sound of metal on metal, and sees him.  
Bucky, dressed in a wine coloured shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stands over his anvil, his short, wedge headed hammer in his right hand, a thin length of salvaged wrought iron in his left. Steve watches as he hammers the end to a tapering point, moving it to the edge of the anvil and tapping his hammer twice to make a shoulder at the thick end of the taper before striking a deeper notch just above it. He snaps the spike off the end of the rod and drops it into a hole in the anvil point down, then with a few sharp taps flattens it to a head. He lifts the finished nail out of the hole and puts it in the pile beside him. It has taken him less than a minute to make it.  
Bucky turns to put the iron rod in the fire and sees Steve in the shadows. He smiles, easy and bright.  
“Hello, stranger,” Bucky says softly. “What brings you out here?”  
Steve is still feeling rattled, enough to be a little truthful. “I was worried about you.”  
Bucky doesn’t seem to take offence, pulling the iron from the fire and hammering out another nail. “Yeah?”  
When Steve doesn’t react to his playful tone, Bucky sets down his tools and takes a closer look at him. Sees the thin line of his mouth, the fine tremors in his fingers.  
“What happened?”  
Steve folds his arms across his chest, his hat still clenched in his fingers. “Just got spooked,” he tries to be dismissive and fails. Fails badly.  
Bucky sets down his tools and goes out to the front door, turning the key in the lock and pulling down the shutter. He comes back into the Smithy, pushing past Steve to the side doors, taking a quick look outside before pulling them closed and pushing the heavy deadbolt in place.  
He turns to Steve. “What happened?”  
“It’s nothing,” Steve rubs his hand over his eyes, “I spoke to Pierce, he said something about you having an accident.” Steve shrugs, “It got me rattled, is all.”  
“What were you doing talking to Pierce?” Bucky stands close. Too close. Not close enough.  
Steve presses his knuckles to his lower lip. “Jasper Sitwell,” he says finally.

Bucky blinks at him. “Who?”  
Steve feels a stab of irritation. After everything they’ve been through, Bucky can still look him in the eye and lie.  
“Don’t,” he snarls. Bucky twitches and takes a step back. “Don’t lie to me Bucky, not now.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Steve pushes past him, shoving hard enough to make him stumble, and throws his hat onto the table.  
“I said don’t fucking lie to me, Buck. Natasha told me everything.”  
There is an odd flicker of emotions that cross Bucky's features. Fear and defiance and something bitter, something sorrowful.  
“Sitwell?” he says, breaking the silence stretching between them. “She didn’t tell me his name.”  
Bucky sits down on the edge of the table, his shoulders slumped. “One of the girls came to my door, screaming about a customer gone crazy. I told her to stay put and went running over there.” He shakes his head. “Never seen anything like it. Not in the war, or the slums. He came at me and… I still had my hammer and…” Bucky shrugs. “Wrapped him up and took him up to the hills.”  
Bucky closes his eyes. He looks so damned tired. “You’re not gonna let me run, are you?” he says, so softly Steve can barely make out the words.  
“Bucky,” Steve whispers.  
Bucky shakes his head. “Goddamned law,” he mutters bitterly. “Should’ve packed up and moved on as soon as folks started talking about bringing in a lawman.”  
Steve presses his back to the cold stone walls. “I was going to...” he confesses. “Came here to take you in. Found you half dead.”  
Bucky makes a small, pained noise. “Course you did. You’re a man of law, what else would you have done?”  
Bucky rubs his fingers across his face, over the pitted scars across his brow. “You ever wonder how I got here, Sheriff?” Bucky asks, his voice distant. “Why I carted an anvil across the Black Hills and fetched up in this patch of dirt?”  
Steve doesn’t speak, he can’t. There are words clawing at his throat and he can’t spit them out.  
“A warrant for my arrest in Dakota Territory. For ‘crimes against nature’. You heard of that?”  
Steve feels his knees give way, and braces his back against the wall. He’d heard the term, whispered and laughed over. Offenses against God, the more devout would say. Sodomy and perversion.  
Bucky watches Steve closely. “Yeah, you’ve heard of it,” he says softly, pushing away from the table towards Steve. “You and your precious goddamn laws. Take a knife to some girls and you can just hand over a few coins, make it all go away. But come into town with the wrong kind of name and they’ll hang you. Stop a man who’s lost himself to slaughter and you’ll get arrested.” Bucky takes slow steps toward Steve, pressed against the wall. “Suck a man off behind a bar and you get ten years. Does that seem fair to you?”  
Steve shakes his head as Bucky stops in front of him, leaning close enough for his dark hair to brush against Steve’s face, to brush against his lips.  
“You know me, Steve,” his breath is warm and damp. He smells of hot iron and cinders and coal smoke. “You know everything, good and bad,” his eyes flick briefly to Steve’s full lips. “Are you going to arrest me?”  
Steve tries to speak, his chest burns with the weight of words. They clog his throat. They coat his tongue, press against his teeth, crowded and cramped. He pitches himself forward, pressing them all, tangled and unspoken, into Bucky's mouth.

Bucky doesn’t flinch, doesn't pull away. He slams his hands to the wall either side of Steve’s head and presses back, pushing him against the stones. Steve lifts his hands up and brushes his fingers along the line of Bucky’s jaw, feels the muscles move under the skin, reaches further and grips hold of his dark hair. Bucky makes a soft sound against his lips, shifts his position and crushes their mouths together.  
Steve tugs at his hair, tries to pull him closer. There is no point of contact between them but for his mouth, hot and restless. Buckys hands still pressed to the wall, his body angled away. Steve _wants_ , but doesn’t know how to ask, so he twists his fingers in long hair and whimpers when Bucky takes his lower lip between his teeth. Bucky runs his tongue over the tender skin, pressing his teeth hard enough to bruise. Steve’s lets out a gasp, because he had traded chaste kisses in his younger days, bumped his mouth against a pretty girls and felt nothing, not this prickling, burning sensation under his skin. His heart never pounded in his chest like a hammer, striking up sparks.  
Bucky pushes his tongue between Steve’s parted lips, touching the tip of his tongue before retreating. He does it again, each time a little bolder, the touch lingering, teasing, coaxing, until Steve dares to return the gesture. Awkward and sweet and strange, he presses and withdraws, lost in the back and forth until he strays a little too far, a little too bold and Bucky closes his mouth and sucks, fast and firm.  
Steve shivers, wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, and fights back. Teeth clacking together, the touch of pitted bare skin under his hands, the sensation of teeth against wet lips, a body pressed against his own, is like victory.

Bucky pulls back, his lower lip touched with blood. Steve’s hands still around his shoulders, fingers tucked under his shirt. Bucky clears his throat and smooths his hands down the front of Steve’s coat.  
“Alright,” he says finally, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist and leading his to the back room, snatching up the lantern from the table as they go.  
Bucky turns up the flame and sets the lantern in the alcove above the bed, filling the room with soft amber light, before turning back to Steve and pressing a line of light, brushing kisses along the line of his jaw, nuzzling at his beard as he slides the coat off Steve’s shoulders, stepping back to shake out the creases and drape the cloth over the steamer trunk at the end of the bed. He returns, kisses light and teasing as he unfastens the gunbelt and sets it at the foot of the bed within easy reach. He undoes the buttons on Steve’s waistcoat.  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs.  
“Shh,” Bucky kisses him, sweet and brief, turning to lay the waistcoat on top of the coat.  
When he returns Steve nudges their mouths together, silently asking, and Bucky complies, kissing slow and deep as he works each button loose on his shirt, sliding his hand over the exposed pale skin. Steve gasps and whimpers as Bucky rubs a thumb over his nipple, and Bucky smiles against his mouth, flicking and twisting with fingers and tongue. He withdraws, much to Steve’s protest, and eases the shirt over his shoulders, shaking out the creases and laying it down on the growing pile of clothes.  
Steve plucks at Bucky’s work shirt, and he strips it off in one smooth motion, dragging the wine coloured cloth over his head and casting it aside. Steve presses his mouth to Bucky's scarred shoulder, hands wandering across his skin. He presses his tongue to the smooth flat circles littering his collarbone, fingers traversing the taut muscles of his arms, the flat planes of his stomach while Bucky strokes calloused hands across his shoulders, goosebumps rising wherever he touches.  
They move to the bed, Bucky pushing Steve to lie back while he removes boots and socks.  
Steve shakes when Bucky's fingers slide over the placket of his pants, popping each button free and tugging the waistband down. Steve plants his bare feet on the bed and lifts his hips, a noise, desperate and longing, creeping up his throat as Bucky strips down his pants and underwear, shaking the pants out before placing them on the trunk. He shucks off his work trousers, letting them fall to the floor, and kneels on the bed, leaning down to give Steve a kiss.  
“You got a preference?” Bucky murmurs, his voice rough.  
Steve’s breath catches. “I… don’t know.”

Bucky sits back, stroking his hand across Steve’s stomach, his cock, stiff and jutting up, twitches when Bucky's wrist brushes against it. He reaches down and wraps his hand loosely around the length and Steve lets out a moan. Bucky trails his fingers along the underside of the shaft, moving in slow, lazy strokes.  
“If I do something you don’t like, you’ll tell me and we’ll try something else. Okay?”  
Steve nods, biting his lip and trying to will away the red flush across his chest.  
“It’ll sting at first, but it’s not supposed to hurt,” he gives Steve a serious look. “It hurts, or you don’t care for it, we stop. No brave face, no lying back and thinking of England, you hear me?”  
Steve nods, his ears turning red. He’s not naive, he was a soldier in the army. So when Bucky reaches up to the alcove, bringing down a jar of salve, Steve understands his intent. Bucky coaxes Steve onto his side, laying down on the bed to face him and pulling him in for a kiss. Steve leans into him, curling his fingers around the nape of Bucky’s neck and sucking on his tongue. Bucky pulls at Steve’s leg, laying it over his hip. He reaches over to the open jar of salve and dips two fingers in. He nips at Steve’s tongue to get his attention.  
“We have an understanding?”  
Steve blushes. “Yes,” he nibbles on Bucky's lip. “Yes.”  
Bucky moves slowly, pressing one finger behind Steve’s ballsack and running it up his cleft, stroking against the knot of flesh hidden there. Steve makes a startled sound against his mouth, then relaxes a little, twisting his hands in Bucky's hair and kissing him, soft and languorous. Bucky keeps his finger moving, slow and rhythmic, pressing against the ring of muscle and relaxing until he can ease his way in to the first knuckle. Steve lets out a choked sound. “Buck,” he gasps.  
Bucky rubs their noses together. “You alright? You want to stop?”  
Steve shakes his head sharply. “Just… strange.”  
Bucky rocks his hand, slowly withdrawing a little before pushing back in a little more, easing the second knuckle through the tight ring of muscle and twisting.  
Steve presses his face to Bucky's shoulder. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, a tremor in his muscles.  
“Steve?” Bucky murmurs, but Steve doesn’t answer. When Bucky starts to pull his hand away Steve grabs him by the wrist. “Don’t,” he whines, his voice wrecked.  
“You want to stop?” Steve shakes his head. Bucky thrusts his finger slowly, calluses catching on the furled rim. Steve presses his face to Bucky's neck, breath hot and damp against his skin, his cock hard and leaking against Bucky’s stomach. He can’t describe the sensation, strange and sharp and sweet, static crackling under his skin.  
Bucky presses kisses to any part of Steve he can reach; his cheek, his shoulder, the dark blond of his beard. Steve keeps one arm wrapped around Bucky’s shoulder, hand splayed across his back. The other tucked between them, fingers tangled in his hair.  
“You alright?” Bucky murmurs. Steve sucks a bruise on his collarbone in response. “You want to keep going?” Steve presses his teeth to the bruise and offers a muffled ‘yes’.  
Bucky withdraws his hand, shushing the muffled whine of protest and presses two fingers into him. Steve sucks in a breath and Bucky waits until Steve growls at him to _move_ , and resumes his steady pace, twisting and scissoring his fingers while Steve shudders and begins to rock his hips back in a slow counterpoint. Bucky tilts his head down until he finds Steve's mouth, and Steve grips him by the shoulders and pulls him closer, turning Bucky's gentle touches into something deeper and more urgent.  
The third finger follows smoothly, Steve torn between pushing back onto Buckys fingers and pushing forward to rut against his stomach. He grumbles when Bucky eases him onto his back, outright complains when his rough fingers twist free, leaving him aching and empty.

“This’ll be easier on you if you lie on your front,” Bucky says, wrapping his slick hand loosely around Steve’s cock and tugging gently.  
Steve shakes his head. “I want to see you.”  
Bucky smiles down at him, broad and bright. “Yeah.” He slides his hand up the shaft, brushes his thumb across the crown, making Steve gasp. “Yeah, I want to see you.”  
Bucky sits back, getting Steve to bend his knees and put his feet flat on the mattress, and positions himself between Steve’s legs, slicking himself up with salve.  
“If it hurts…” he begins.  
Steve nudges him with his foot. “I’ll yell the place down, I swear. C’mon.”  
Bucky leans down to kiss the impatient frown off his face before sitting back up. He places a hand on Steve's stomach, using the other to guide himself into position and pushes, slow and relentless. Steve shudders, hands grasping at Bucky’s hips, gripping his wrist. He whispers Bucky’s name over and over like a litany, like a blessing.  
Bucky moves slowly at first, one hand gripping Steve’s hip, the other hooked under his knee, braced against Bucky's side. Steve utters soft, breathless curses with every push, until he is reduced to panting wordlessly as Bucky moves faster.  
Steve reaches for him. “Come here,” he breathes, and Bucky pushes his knees up, leaning forward and bracing his weight on his hands. Steve kisses him, brief sips as they shift against each other, chests pressed together as Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's shoulders, panting as he pistons his hips, increasing the pace. Each thrust punches the air out of Steve's lungs, until he can’t bring himself to speak or curse or kiss, panting into Bucky’s mouth. Steve smooths his hands down Bucky’s back, gripping the firm flesh of his backside and spurring him on. Bucky’s hips stutter against him, and he pushes himself up onto his elbow, reaching down and wrapping his right hand around Steve’s aching cock. Bucky pumps his fist in time to his thrusts, and Steve shivers and throws his head back, arching his spine and spilling over Bucky’s fingers. Bucky whispers Steve’s name, a jumble of words in his strange language, sweet and pained as Steve clenches around him, and comes.

Bucky comes to his senses first, easing himself out of Steve and getting out of the bed, the stones cold under his feet.  
“Bucky?” Steve murmurs.  
“Shh,’ he brushes a hand through Steve's hair. “Be right back.”  
He pads out to the forge, checks the fire and fetches a washcloth. He dunks it in water, rings it out and takes it back to the bed.  
He wipes the mess off Steve's stomach, whispering apologies when he flinches from the cold, and wipes between his legs, chuckling when Steve squirms and kicks at him. Bucky wipes off his hands and belly, letting the cloth drop to the floor and crawling onto the mattress. He pulls Steve into his arms, wrapping the blanket around them and hears the dull thunk of the jar of salve hitting the floor as he rearranges the covers. Steve wraps around him, tucking a knee between his thighs and sighing as Bucky strokes a hand up his spine.  
“You alright?” Bucky murmurs.  
Steve hums and presses his nose to the skin beneath Bucky’s ear. “You done this before?”  
Bucky nods. “Once or twice.” He feels a tension build in Steve’s shoulders. “Long time ago.”  
“No one else you do this kind of thing with?” Steve pushes.  
Bucky tries not to laugh. “No. Don’t intend on it either.”  
Steve presses a kiss to his stubbled jaw and mumbles incoherently.  
Bucky nudges Steve's leg with his cold foot. “C’mon. Your turn.”  
Steve shakes his head, warm and sleepy. “No. No one else.”  
“Damn right,” Bucky whispers, though Steve is already asleep.

Bucky wakes early, blinking in the low lantern light. Steve mumbles in his sleep, shifting slightly before settling again with a sigh.  
Bucky eases himself upright, slow and careful so as not to jostle the sleeper pressed up against him. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Steve Rogers at rest, all pale skin limned with honey. His hair, usually slicked back and hidden under a wide brimmed hat, a mess of gold spread over the pillow. Bucky traces his fingers along Steve’s shoulders, touching the bite marks carefully placed below the collar. Barely brushes over his ribs and the finger shaped bruises at his hips before pulling the woolen blanket up to his broad shoulders.  
Asleep, he lacks the wrinkle of tension at his brow. His jawline, furred with dark gold, is not clenched with frustration. He is beautiful in sleep. As beautiful as when he is awake, dressed in his finery and his silver star and looking for a fight.  
Bucky slips quietly out from the covers, padding barefoot across the stone. He catches the jar of liniment with his foot, and bends down to retrieve it from where it had fallen the night before. He smiles to himself as he screws the lid on and puts it back in the alcove above the bed.  
He pulls on his canvas pants, buttoning them up and snatching his work shirt off the floor. He pulls it over his head, wrestling with the sleeves in the gloom, and goes in search of his boots. He finds one in the corner, the other under the bed, and pulls them on, tying up the laces before heading out to the Smithy.

The forge is banked, dark and dusted with white ash. Bucky stirs the coals and sets the bellows to works until they glow cherry red, before rummaging around in his stores until he finds the handful of eggs someone had traded a horseshoe for. A little more searching brings up twist of lard and a heel of bread. Bucky sets the items on the table, picks up the coffee pot and heads out to the yard.  
He goes to the outhouse for a piss and washes his face and hands, empties the dregs from the coffee pot before filling it from the well. He checks on the horses and heads back inside.  
He adds coffee to the pot and rests it in the embers, then picks out a shovel and sets it in the coals, twisting the handle until it’s set firmly in place.  
Bucky heads into the backroom and gives the bedframe a gentle kick.  
“Up,” he growls before heading back to the forge.  
He flicks the lump of fat onto the shovel, tilting the handle to coat the pan as it hisses and spits. He cracks the eggs, one at a time, into the hot fat, giving the shovel an occasional sharp tug to keep them from sticking. He tears the bread in two and presses the pieces onto the shovel to soak up the hot fat, then grabs two tin mugs and gives them rinse.  
He fills the mugs with coffee, flips the fried bread onto a plate and scoops a couple of eggs onto each piece before setting the shovel aside.  
He grabs the mugs with his free hand and heads into the backroom to find Steve sitting up in the cot, yawning and brushing strands of hair out of his eyes.  
Bucky resists the urge to mess up Steve’s attempts to neaten himself and hands over the coffee. Steve takes it with a murmured thank you, shifting over to let Bucky sit next to him. Bucky watches as he sips his coffee, all warm, soft edges, and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Steve leans into the touch and Bucky presses a thumb to his lower lip.  
“ _Shukka_ ,” Bucky murmurs.  
Steve blinks slowly and smiles. “I don’t know what that means.” His lips rasping against the pad of Bucky’s thumb. Bucky pulls his hand away and holds up the plate.  
“Breakfast,” he says, ignoring the question.  
Steve takes one of the chunks of bread and hesitates, picking a flake of cinder out of the egg.  
“What?” Bucky mutters defensively. “You need a napkin??  
Steve shakes his head and takes a bite, savouring the rich flavour. It’s gritty and greasy and the best thing he’s ever eaten.  
Bucky leans against him and chews on his own bread and eggs. Steve swallow's the last bite and makes a happy little sound, cradling his coffee to his chest and reaching out to push his fingers into Bucky’s dark hair.  
They curl in comfortable silence a while, Steve’s fingers massaging little circles on Bucky’s scalp while he rests his head on his shoulder.  
Outside a rooster crows and Bucky frowns. He sits up and pats Steve on the hip.  
“C’mon, up you get.” Steve grumbles softly and Bucky tugs at the blanket. “On yer feet, sheriff.”  
At that word Steve sits up, taking a moment to stretch, and Bucky watches the play of muscles across his back shamelessly before he gets to his feet and goes to make more coffee.

Steve dresses slowly, pulling on his shirt and fastening it up, following with the pants, fumbling with the button fly as he yawns. He shakes out his waistcoat and slips it on, working each button slowly, half an ear on the sounds of Bucky clattering about in the Smithy. He pulls on his boots and buckles on his gunbelt, and lastly his coat, letting his finger brush over the silver star. He follows the sound of whistling to find Bucky setting out his tools for the day.  
Bucky looks up when he enters the room and smiles. The rare smile, the one just for Steve that crinkles up the corners of his eyes.  
“ _Bori rai_ ,” Bucky murmurs, setting down his pliers and walking over.  
The beard does not cover all of the rosy blush on Steve’s features, and Bucky traces his fingers along the line of his jaw, raking his nails against the gold of his neatly trimmed beard until Steve takes the hint and presses slow, sweet kisses to his lips.  
He could spend eternity here, Steve thinks, in the low light and banked heat of the forge. Could spend forever in the slow exchange of kisses, the sweep of tongue and the press of teeth. Bucky kisses like he has no care in the world, no considerations but the drag of his incisors against a full lower lip and the hot, slick press of tongues.

Bucky pulls away far too soon, and Steve suppresses a whimper at the loss. Bucky stands back and takes a look at him, reaching up to smooth down the collar of his shirt.  
Steve keeps as still as he can while Bucky straightens out his cuffs, pulling the stiff fabric into position. His heart beats a little faster as Bucky reaches to his waist, and he tries not to feel disappointment that it's only to tug down his waistcoat.  
Bucky smirks and clucks his tongue. “Restless, aren’t ya?” He teases gently.  
“Should I go out the back?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky snorts and shakes his head.  
“You sneak around you get caught,” he glances up, a smile tugging at his mouth. “So don’t sneak.”  
“Buck… If we get caught…”  
“I ain't saying we go down to the Maria’s and I bend you over the poker table,” Bucky grins as Steve flushes crimson at the notion. “We’re gonna go outside an’ sit on the porch with a cup of coffee like civilised folk.”  
Bucky fetches a comb and Steve’s hat. He brushes his fingers across the brim while Steve pushes the comb through his hair with neat, practiced flicks of his wrist. Twists his fingers along the stiff felt to keep them from fisting the smooth lines of Steve’s shirt, from tangling in his hair.  
“Sit proper, you understand,” he says, fixing Steve with a serious look. “No squirming about like a man who ain’t been ploughed before.”  
Bucky places the hat firmly on Steve’s head, watching as he flusters and tries to hide it by adjusting it’s position.  
“I am a man who ain’t been ploughed before,” Steve mumbles. He gives Bucky a sly glance. “Not that I’m opposed to such a thing,” he shifts, his lips twitching. “If an opportunity were to arise.”  
Bucky gifts him with a kiss, if only to keep him from stuttering.  
“Wouldn’t object to, um, ploughing either.” Steve adds.  
Bucky kisses him again. And again. Until they are both near breathless.  
“Could be arranged,” Bucky murmurs softly.  
Steve lets out a strangled little noise and Bucky chuckles, fetching their mugs and picking up the coffeepot from its place by the coals.  
He leads Steve through the workshop, out to the storefront, unlocking the door and ushering him onto the porch.  
Steve sits down on the wooden bench, reaching up for the enamel mug that Bucky holds out to him. Bucky pours them coffee before setting the pot on the wooden boards and sitting beside him.  
They sip their coffee and watch the town slowly wake up, nodding to the early risers walking past.

Steve leans back and closes his eyes. There is a chill in the air, enough to catch in his throat if he breathes in too sharply.  
He savours the sensations. The low, deep ache that turns sharp when he shifts too quickly in his seat. The bruises on his hips. The bitter taste of coffee on his tongue.


	7. Soldiers Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My boss has been thinking on it a while, and has decided that he doesn’t much like the new Sheriff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soldiers Heart, also known as Da Costa's Syndrome, was first described during the American Civil War. In later years it was known as Nostalgia. Now we call it PTSD.  
> Those were real articles in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle that Bucky was reading, you can find them [here](https://bklyn.newspapers.com/image/50350784/)
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Eidheann for kicking my prose into shape and DoubleOhWh00 for picking me up when I'm down.  
> I love you guys
> 
> Kamma ben tu - I love you  
> Mishto - good  
> Kushti grai - good horse

Steve makes a final note in his ledger and closes it with a dull thump. His eyes ache from writing by lamplight no matter how much he rubs at them. He pushes the ledger across the desk and looks out the window in front of him. The day is drawing to an end, though people are still walking the street. He hadn’t even noticed it getting dark.  
He gets up and stretches, feeling his back pop. It had taken less time than expected to finish up the Jailhouse, especially with Bucky pitching in, constructing the two iron-barred cells at the back of the building. They were small, room enough for a pallet and a chamber pot, secured with a heavy lock and key. They didn’t see much use, the occasional bar fight or idiot with too much liquor in him and not enough sense.  
Steve taps on the bars of the occupied cell with his keys. “Hodge?”  
The man slumped on the pallet looks up. “Yeah, Sheriff?”  
“You learned a valuable lesson?”  
Hodge presses his fingers to his swollen jaw. “Maria’s gotta kick like a mule.”  
Steve huffs under his breath. “Anything else?”  
Hodge is quiet for a moment. “Keep my hands to myself?”  
Steve unlocks the door and holds it open. “I catch you pulling another stunt like that I’ll lock you back up again. Have Odinson keep you company for a while, read you his copy of _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_.”  
Hodge pales. “No sir. Won’t be necessary. Thank you Sir. Uh. Sheriff. Sir,” he stutters as he half runs for the door.  
Steve chuckles to himself, going through his evening checks before pulling on his overcoat and picking his hat up off his desk. He sits it neatly on his head and locks up. The Jailhouse is next to the Livery and opposite the Hardware store, which comes in handy if Steve needs any backup, and stands in sight of the Sheriff's house. He walks down the street in the opposite direction, wishing good evening to the people he passes, and follows the road to the Smithy.

The heavy wooden doors are still cracked open, light and heat spilling on from inside. Steve pulls the doors shut behind him, checking that Bucky hasn’t got any visitors before pushing the bolt across and taking off his overcoat. There is a hook in the wall by the door that appeared the day after it got cold enough to start wearing a coat, and he hangs it there, balancing his hat on top before following the sound of metal striking metal.  
Bucky stands over his anvil cinching a piece of iron, heated until it glows yellow, into place with a length of chain. He holds a chisel in place, positioned over one end of the iron and swings his hammer, slowly driving it through the hot metal. He turns the piece over, positioning it over the hole at the foot of the anvil, and douses the chisel in the bucket of water at his feet before striking through, then using a wedge shaped tool to widen the hole made. Steve folds his arms across his chest and watches in silent fascination, he doubts he will ever tire of watching Bucky take a piece of iron and in minutes hammer it into a mattock, or a shovel or a length of chain. Bucky pushes the iron back into the fire and glances up, spotting Steve in the shadows.  
“Hello, stranger,” he says softly.  
Steve flushes, and drops his head. “Hey. I was going to come by yesterday, but some idiot with a death wish tried to make a move on Maria. Went about as well as can be expected.”  
Bucky nods. “Hodge, right? I heard about that.” He glances at Steve, still hunched up and apologetic. “Don’t take on, so. We didn’t see each other for twenty four hours, it’s not the end of the world.”  
“It felt like it,” Steve mutters.  
It’s hard to get annoyed when Steve comes out with comments like that.  
“Do me a favour, would you? Go lock up out front?”  
Steve nods, biting back a smile and slipping past him to the small room up front that leads onto the porch. It’s mostly empty, a counter littered with sketches of commission pieces. Bucky is still getting used to the idea of paperwork, or keeping track of orders. Steve throws the lock on the door and pulls down the shutter before going back to the Smithy.

Bucky pulls the iron out of the fire, and taps it, making sure its even before dousing it in the bucket of water and putting the squared end back in the fire. He glances up at Steve, his back to the wall and watching intently, and flashes him a grin. Steve smiles back, biting his lip, and Bucky returns to work, taking the iron out of the coals and setting it on the anvil, holding the rounded end in place with a large set of pliers. He strikes the square end of the metal, flattening it and fanning it out, turning it every so often to keep the blade even. He puts the edge back in the fire and picks up a flat faced hammer to smooth out the finish and neaten the edges, checking the lines as he goes. He finally douses it in the bucket of water, waiting until it’s cold before handing it over to Steve.  
“An axe head?” Steve shakes his head, turning the piece over in his hands as Bucky douses and puts away his tools. Steve holds out the piece of metalwork. Bucky still needs to finish it and put an edge to the blade, but he’ll take care of it in the morning. He banks up the fire and takes the axe head, leaving it on the anvil, and crowds Steve up against the wall.

Bucky places his hands either side of Steve, palms against the wall. Steve takes him by the wrists, moving both of Bucky’s hands under his coat.  
“I’ll ruin your shirt,” Bucky rumbles against his lips.  
“Don’t care,” Steve answers and kisses him.  
Steve kisses the way he fights, relentless and fierce and not above using dirty tricks. Bucky rolls with the punches, knows when to give ground, when to graze his teeth across Steve’s lower lip and a shove a knee between his thighs. Steve keens into his mouth, hands fisted in his hair and tongue between his teeth, shuddering when Bucky nips at him in retaliation and stumbling across the flagstones to the back room.  
The lanterns are still in the Smithy, so they fumble in the darkness, Bucky taking far too much care over the welfare of the buttons on Steve’s shirt.  
“I’ll get another one,” he growls into Bucky’s mouth. “I’ll get a dozen and you can ruin every last one of them.”  
Bucky laughs and pushes Steve onto his back, straddles his hips and unfastens the last few buttons before trailing his hands down to his trousers and working them open, shoving his hand under the placket and wrapping his fingers around Steve’s cock. He thrusts up into Bucky’s fist, whimpering when he pulls away.  
Bucky shushes him, sliding his thumbs under the waistband of Steve’s charcoal striped trousers and pulling them down, dodging Steve’s feet as he kicks off his boots and letting the clothes fall to the floor. Steve reaches up for him, stripping off Bucky's shirt and throwing it to one side before dragging him down for a kiss. Bucky presses his teeth to Steve's beard, biting down lightly just to make him squirm a little, before relenting and kissing down his chest. Steve tugs off his shirt and pushes it aside, digging his fingers into Bucky's shoulders as he settles between his knees and bends down to lick his way up Steve’s cock.  
Steve moans, low and sweet, when Bucky wraps his mouth around the head, sucking and closing his hand around the shaft. Bucky bobs his head, pumping his fist and swallowing around him and Steve makes a guttural sound, digging his heels into the mattress, fingers scrabbling at Bucky’s shoulders.  
“Come here,” he gasps, tugging at Bucky’s hair.  
Bucky sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up the bed.  
“Alright?” he murmurs before Steve presses trembling fingers to Bucky’s jaw to guide him closer and kiss him, deep and frantic and rough-edged with longing.  
Bucky gentles the kiss, soothing with lips and tongue and stroking fingers, before rolling them over on the bed, hooking his leg around the back of Steve’s thigh and gripping his waist, shifting until their cocks align. Steve moans into Bucky's mouth and he swallows the sound, sweet as honey. Bucky can move only a little, pinned under Steve’s weight, but coaxes him into action, rocking up as Steve thrusts against him. They fall into rhythm, Bucky digging his heels into the mattress and panting into Steve’s shoulder, biting down when he comes, Steve following a moment later.

Bucky climbs out of bed, fumbling his way through the gloom to the Smithy. He fetches a washcloth and wipes up the mess on his stomach, checking on the fire and picking up a lantern before he makes his way back to the bed. Steve hisses when Bucky swipes the cold cloth over him, shifting over to one side to make room. Bucky lets the cloth fall to the floor and climbs back into bed, lets Steve curl up around him and rest his head on Bucky’s shoulder before he pulls the blankets over them.  
“Better?” Bucky murmurs, amusement curling the corners of his mouth.  
Steve huffs, and after a moment mutters “Yes.” He rubs the pad of his thumb against Bucky's hip. “You shouldn’t worry so much about the shirt.”  
Bucky snorts. “Seemed important.”  
Steve considers for a while. “It was,” he says finally. “For a while it felt like a starched shirt was the only thing…” he shrugs. “Holding all the pieces together.”  
Bucky pushes his hands through Steve’s hair, spun gold curling around his fingers. “Maybe I like seeing you all dressed up.” Bucky frowns to himself. “Feels less like I’m…” he hesitates, “Dragging you down to hell with me.”  
Steve’s thumb pauses. “You really think that, Buck?”  
Bucky doesn’t shake his head straight away. “My _dai_ , my ma, she used to think it. Then in the war it seemed like. I don’t know. Hell couldn’t be any worse, and I’m still on my feet.”  
Steve presses closer. “Ain't nothing wrong with what we’re doing.”  
“Law says what we’re doing is worth ten years in jail,” Bucky growls.  
“Well, the law’s wrong,” Steve mutters against his shoulder. “What’s law and what’s right is not always the same thing.”  
Bucky strokes fingers through Steve’s hair, slow and soothing. “Don’t I know it.” he sighs. “That being said, you should probably sleep at your own place once in a while.”  
Steve props up on his elbow and looks down at Bucky. “You trying to get rid of me?” he sounds more amused than annoyed.  
Bucky shakes his head. “When did you last sleep in your own bed? A week ago? Two? People will start talking.”  
Steve curls back up around him, and Bucky holds him tightly.  
“I like it here,” Steve says quietly. “This is home.”  
Bucky doesn’t argue, pressing his hand to the nape of Steve’s neck.  
“Alright,” he sighs, and pulls Steve a little closer.

Steve wakes up first, grumbling and pushing his face into Bucky's armpit. His beard tickles and Bucky squirms, trying to get away.  
“Alright, I’m awake,” Bucky mutters, slapping at the arms wrapped around him. Steve grudgingly lets go and Bucky sits up, picking his clothes up off the floor and pulling them on. Steve rolls onto his side to watch, reaching out to brush his fingers across Bucky's hip. Bucky catches Steve’s hand, tangling his fingers in his own.  
“ _Kamma ben tu_ ,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Steve’s knuckles.  
Steve blushes, and pulls Bucky down for a kiss, soft and lazy. He grumbles when Bucky sits up again.  
“C’mon, Sheriff. Up you get.”  
Bucky smacks him on the flank and goes looking for his boots. Steve sits up and stretches before picking his shirt up and pulling it on.  
“Let me buy you breakfast?” he calls after Bucky, who has found is other boot by the doorway and is lacing it up. “Hmm?”  
Steve pulls on his trousers, flinching as his feet hit the cold stone and buttoning them up. “Breakfast? Come to the hotel with me.”  
Bucky straightens up, giving Steve an incredulous look. “You’re serious.”  
Steve pulls on his boots. “Yeah. It’s just breakfast. People eat breakfast all the time.”  
After a moment to think about it, Bucky nods. “This doesn’t count as the fancy meal, y’know,” he teases.  
Steve snorts. “Never letting that one go, are you?”  
“Alright. I’ve gotta do some repairs for Thor, so I’m going into town anyway.” Bucky smiles at him, his eyes crinkling.  
“Odinson?” Steve buckles on his gunbelt.  
“Yeah. Horse kicked a gate.” Bucky disappears into the Smithy to get his gear together while Steve puts on his coat and picks up the lantern, turning the flame down and following after him.  
Bucky takes a moment to straighten Steve’s collar and smooth down his shirt, brushing his hands across the coat and kissing him with teasing flicks of his tongue.  
It’s over far too soon, and Steve grudgingly fetches his hat and coat from the door, wrapping up against the chill wind and going out to see to the horse.  
By the time he comes back, Bucky has packed his canvas bag with tools, and in concession to the cold has put on an old duster. He locks up and they walk side by side down the road, shoulders brushing, their voices pitched low.

Phil startles at the sight of Bucky coming into the hotel, but manages to recover himself.  
“Mr Barnes. Good to see you,” he looks over at Steve. “Morning, Sheriff.”  
“Phil. Two of us for breakfast.”  
Phil nods, keeping half an eye on Bucky as he wanders over to the dining room and drops his bag under one of the tables before going to the counter to fetch two cups of coffee. Steve loads up two plates with eggs and toast, grabbing forks and bringing them over. Bucky rolls his eyes when he sees the newspaper tucked under Steve's arm, but doesn’t put up a fight.  
They sit side by side, pressed together from hip to ankle, and Bucky sullenly chews on his overcooked eggs and ignores Steve as he folds up the paper and presses it flat between their plates.  
Steve taps the dense type with a fingertip. “C’mon, Bucky,” he says softly.  
Bucky scowls and puts down his piece of toast, looking at the page where Steve is pointing. He swallows and follows the the line of text, muttering slowly under his breath.  
“Twelve hundred pounds of tom… Tom-a-toes. Tomatoes. Grew on a single. Vine?” Steve nods. “Vine in Cal-i-for-ni-a.”  
Bucky frowns, so focused on making the words themselves he’d not paid attention to the meaning behind them.  
“Now read it again,” Steve says encouragingly.  
Bucky scowls at him, and pointedly shoves a piece of toast in his mouth. Steve waits for him to finish chewing and swallow before tapping the paper again.  
“Twelve hundred pounds of… Tomatoes… grew on a single… Vine in California. Oh, well that’s bollocks.”  
Steve chuckles and moves his finger to another line. Bucky follows the path of his fingernail, slowly stumbling over the longer words.  
“That’s really good, Buck. Read it again?”  
“A… Waterloo woman married the… Steers-man of a canal boat the other day… After a three hours… Ack… Aquan… Acquaintance.”  
Bucky sits back, looking vindicated, and Steve pushes the paper away, smiling at him with a fierce kind of pride. Bucky flushes, and jabs Steve in the ribs with his elbow.  
“Quit looking so damn pleased with yourself,” he mutters

“Mr Barnes, this is a surprise!”  
Bucky looks up and gives Steve a gentle kick. He glances up from the paper and sees Peggy and Angie coming over.  
“Ladies,” Bucky says warmly.  
Angie sits down at their table, making herself at home and cutting into her plate of eggs and sausage. Peggy gives Steve a warm smile as she sits.  
“Put your tongue back in your mouth, English,” Angie says cheerfully.  
Peggy levels a glare at her. “Well that seems unlikely to happen.”  
Bucky snorts into his cup of coffee, and Angie looks up, startled.  
“Our Blacksmith just laughed, Peggy.”  
“Good lord, I didn’t think Northerners did that sort of thing.”  
“Well, I’m full of surprises,” Bucky says, sounding more amused than anything. He swallows the last cup of coffee. “Alright, I’ve got work.” He nods to Angie and Peggy. “Ladies.”  
He gets to his feet, picking up his bag of tools from under the table and giving Steve a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”  
Steve nods, his hands twisting in his lap. “You will.”  
“ _Mishto_ ,” Bucky says quietly, nodding to the women as he walks away.  
It's hard not to notice how Steve watches out the window as Bucky crosses the road to the Livery. Steve doesn't see them clutch at each other's hands under the table.

The latch on the stable door is twisted completely out of shape. Bucky doesn’t even try to repair it, and sets about removing it completely. Thor works around him, tending to the horses and chattering in his amiable way. Bucky doesn’t notice they have company until Thor bellows cheerfully.  
“Mr Wilson. A fine day, do you not think?”  
“Yeah, pretty good so far. I’m here for my horse.” Sam glances over at Bucky. “Morning, Blacksmith.”  
Bucky gives him a noncommittal grunt and carries on fixing the new latch in place.  
“Are you venturing on a quest?” Thor asks, concerned.  
Sam shakes his head. “Just over to Spearfish to pick up an order, should be back before the end of the day.”  
“Have care on the road,” Thor warns him. “I have heard speak of Indians ambushing lonely travellers.”  
Bucky snorts. “No, they’re not.”  
Thor looks over at him. “Blacksmith?”  
“They’re not wild animals, they’re not savages. They don’t like us being here, but there’s not much they can do about it.” Bucky sits back and fetches a tool from his bag. “They're just people, trying to keep a hold of their way of life while the world changes around them.”  
Thor nods soberly. “Wise words.” He pats Sam on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Your horse. Redwing, yes?”  
Sam nods, rubbing his shoulder. “That’s right.”  
Thor turns and strides off through the stables. Sam turns to Bucky, watching as he checks the new latches mechanism.  
“So, you and Steve.” Sam says finally.  
Bucky stills for a moment, then carries on with his work.  
“It’s been good to see him making friends. He’s never been much good with people.”  
Bucky snorts, but makes no comment.  
“But you two seem to be pretty close.”  
Bucky shrugs, and Sam stops making an effort, crossing his arms and waiting for Thor to return.  
“It’s a wonder he’s so tall,” Bucky says eventually. “All that weight on his shoulders.”  
He glances round and catches Sam's wide grin.  
“I swear, the stories I could tell you,” Sam says with a laugh.  
Bucky answers with a smile of his own, and by the time Thor returns with Redwing, Sam is telling a story of Steve punching out a superior officer while Bucky is equal parts amused and appalled.  
Bucky wishes Sam good luck on his journey as he packs up his tools and clears things up with Thor, who tries to pay him more money than the job is worth. He spends a little time with Brooklyn while Thor reassures him that she’s well and getting plenty of exercise. The horse whickers at him and he scratches her cheek.  
“ _Kushti grai_ ,” he murmurs, and thinks of the paddock behind the Smithy.

Bucky walks across town, his bag of tools slung over his shoulder, heading back to the Smithy. He gets held up a few times by people after quick repairs, and since he’s already got his gear with him, he agrees. It’s not exactly hard work fixing the hinge on the Doc’s door or straightening out the tines of a fork or any of the five-minute tasks given to him. He brushes off any offers of money, taking payment in a handful of apples, a few pieces of scrap iron, a half loaf of bread.  
He tugs open the heavy wooden doors to let the sunlight in and piles his trades on a high shelf in the Smithy before he takes off his duster and hangs it on the hook by the door and goes about his morning routine. He rakes the coals in the forge and refills the charcoal bucket, setting his tools out for the day's work.  
He keeps his head down, taking care of repairs first, resharpening the points on a saw and patching a bucket, fixing the buckled links in a chain and a handful of tools brought in by accident prone prospectors. He takes each finished item to the front room to put on the shelves, ready to be picked up by their owners. He goes back into the Smithy and puts some iron in the fire to make horseshoes, since his supplies are running low.  
He sets the bellows to work until the coals burn yellow, tinged with red, and pulls out the short length of iron, glowing amber at one end, with his heavy pliers. He scrubs the surface with a wire brush and sets it onto the horn of the anvil, hammering it into a curve before laying it onto the flat of the anvil, checking that the line is straight before picking up a punch and striking a series of holes along the curved side. He thrusts the iron back into the fire to heat it up, pulling it out again and punching through the holes on the other side before taking a rasp and rounding the end of the shoe. He puts the straight half back in the flames, waiting for it to heat up and repeats the process on the other side. When he’s done he puts the shoe back in the fire, pulling it out when it’s glowing and works on the finish, scrubbing a wire brush over it one last time and quenching it in the water bucket.  
He hears a low whistle from the doorway, and realises he has an audience.

Brock Rumlow leans against the doorframe, his shoulders stiff despite his casual pose.  
Bucky takes a wary step back and picks up the horseshoe, still warm to the touch, and taps the flat of it on the anvil.  
“You need something?” he growls.  
Rumlow smiles at him, feral and wide. “Just came to pay my respects.”  
Bucky picks up another length of iron and pushes it into the fire, working the bellows until the coals lose their sooty edge and start to glow.  
“Consider them paid,” he mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on Rumlow as he swaggers into the building.  
“Don’t you want to hear the news?” he steps closer, and Bucky moves to the table, where his tools are laid out in a line. “It’s pertinent,” Rumlow adds.  
Bucky picks up a poker and pushes it around the coals, spreading them out across the stone surface.  
“No?” Rumlow sounds disappointed. “How about I tell you anyway. You know who I work for?”  
Bucky nods. “Pierce.”  
Rumlow claps his hands together. “That’s right, not such a dumb gyp after all.”  
Bucky slowly reaches back and picks his hammer up from the table, his hand grips the shaft near the heavy iron head, the weight familiar in his hand.  
Rumlow looks delighted, and pushes back his coat to reveal the pistol on his hip. “My boss has been thinking on it a while, and has decided that he doesn’t much like the new Sheriff.” Rumlow stays where he is, watching as Bucky moves slowly around the anvil. “Gave him every opportunity to fall into line, but the man is stubborn, got himself a sense of honour.”  
Bucky doesn’t make a sound, moving in a circle around him, slowly working his way towards the door.  
“So the Sheriff has to go, but he’s got himself a little guard dog,” Rumlow gives Bucky a sympathetic look. “And you need to be put down first.”  
Rumlow goes for his pistol, and Bucky dodges, down and forward as he fires, the bullet burying itself in the wall behind him. He barrels towards Rumlow, swinging the hammer and catching him in the ribs. Rumlow bellows, stumbling backward out of reach, bringing the gun up again, but he’s too close, and Bucky takes another swing at him. Rumlow twists out of the way, smashing Bucky across the face with the butt of his pistol and slamming him into the wall. Bucky headbutts him, slamming into the bridge of his nose. Rumlow stumbles back and drops his pistol, blood streaming over his mouth.  
Bucky kicks the pistol away into the dark corner of the Smithy, panting for breath as he adjusts the grip on his hammer.  
“You tell Pierce to fuck off,” he rasps. “You want Steve, you gotta go through me.”  
Rumlow runs the back of his hand across his mouth, flicks the blood to the floor. “That’s kind of the idea,” he laughs and rushes forward, shoving Bucky against the doorframe. Rumlow pins him in place with his shoulder, grabbing his wrist and twisting while Bucky struggles and kicks at his legs, smashing at his shins with the heel of his boot. Rumlow squeezes Bucky's wrist until he yells out and drops the hammer, then grabs him by his hair and smacks his face into the wall, tearing the skin around his eyes and cheek. Bucky stumbles, dragging his feet as Rumlow hauls him by the hair across the floor to the anvil.  
“Tragic accident,” Rumlow wheezes as Bucky lands a punch in his bruising ribs. “Fell. Bashed open your skull on your own anvil.”  
Bucky manages to turn at the last moment as Rumlow forces his head down, just missing the heavy iron anvil. He blinks the blood out of his eyes and sees a hole punch lying on the floor beside him. He reaches out for the metal spike as Rumlow pulls him up again, grabs it and turns around, driving the point into Rumlow’s leg.  
He lets out a scream and stumbles back, grabbing hold of the punch and yanking it free. Blood spills onto the flagstones as Bucky straightens up, unsteady on his feet, and stalks towards him.  
Rumlow stumbles backwards, his eyes flicking around the room in search of a weapon and sees the irons in the fire. He takes a few, faltering steps and Bucky follows, wiping blood out of his eye with the heel of his hand. Rumlow reaches out to grab the poker and Bucky shoves into him, grabbing him by the back of his head and forcing him down onto the coals.  
Rumlow screams, kicking as Bucky holds him in place, choking on the acrid smell of burning flesh.  
“You can’t have him,” Bucky hisses in his ear and takes a step back, watching as Rumlow falls to the floor, embers still burning his cheek, hot coals clinging to his skin.  
Bucky bends down to grip him by the hair and pulls his head back.  
“You tell your boss,” he rasps. “Stay away from the Sheriff.”  
Rumlow whines and pulls out of his grip, leaving tufts of hair in Bucky's clenched fist. He stumbles to his feet, cursing as he limps away.

Bucky waits until he’s sure Rumlow has gone before reaching for his hammer and sitting down heavily on the floor. He stares numbly at the drops of blood pattering down on the flagstone between his knees and rubs at his eye, sticky with blood. He gets to his feet, slowly, painfully, and stumbles out the door.  
He picks his way across the clearing, down to the paddock, where Rakli whickers softly to him and he pats her on the nose absently, his hands trembling. He clings to her neck when he feels a little off balance, and slowly follows the line of the fence, keeping both hands on the wooden slats as he walks down to the creek.  
He kneels down on one of the flat stones along the creek's edge to wash his face. The water runs pink from his fingers as he cups his hands and splashes his face, flinching when his fingers brush the raw skin around his eye. He sits up, feeling the trickle of blood on his chilled skin, and closes his eyes.  
He’d fought in the war, an ugly, brutal thing. He had seen men; strong men, brave men, struck down with what the docs called _Soldier's Heart_ , lassitude and difficulty breathing, like their hearts couldn’t bear the things they had seen. It’s a strange sensation, to feel so removed from oneself. He forces his eyes open, and watches his horse move back and forth in her paddock, calling out softly to him.

“Bucky!”  
Bucky blinks, looks around and sees Steve running across the clearing towards him.  
“Bucky, what the hell happened? Someone heard a gunshot.” Steve pauses, his face paling as he comes closer. “Bucky?”  
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky murmurs slowly. “I think Rakli is lonely.”  
Steve crouches down on the muddy river bank, reaching out to cradle Bucky’s face in his hand. His fingers are warm, and Bucky leans into the touch.  
“You’re freezing,” Steve breathes. “C’mon, we gotta get you to the Doc.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “M’fine, just need to sit for a while.”  
“Buck, please,” Steve insists. “Did you get shot? There was blood...”  
Bucky snorts. “Not mine. Bullet missed. Missed by a mile.”  
Steve brings his other hand up to touch him, resting on his shirt, over his heart. “The Smithy looks like it had a herd of cattle stampede through it. There was blood on the floor. I thought…”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I’m alright, just took a knock to the head.”  
“You still need to see the Doc. Wound like that can fester.” Steve touches the puffy skin of Bucky’s cheek.  
“In a minute, okay? Just let me sit.”  
Steve shucks off his heavy wool overcoat and wraps it around Bucky’s shoulders, tucking the front closed and pulling him into his arms. Bucky curls into him, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder as he chafes his hands on Bucky's arms.  
The horse neighs at them both. “See,” Bucky snorts. “She’s lonely.”  
Steve looks over at the mare. She’d had the Andersen horse for company for a while, until it had been sent off to their next of kin back east.  
“You could, if you wanted, move Brooklyn over here. I’m not saying Thor isn’t taking good care of her, but...” Bucky knows he’s rambling. “If you wanted.”  
Steve brushes the matted, blood soaked hair off of his face. “I’d like that.”  
They sit in silence, watching the sun disappear past the treeline.  
“Pierce is making a play. He wants you dead.”  
Steve’s hand stills on the small of Bucky’s back.  
“Sent Rumlow out here to get rid of me first.” Bucky's mouth twists upwards. “Didn’t take kindly to it.”  
Steve grits his teeth. “Is he dead?”  
“No,” Bucky sighs. “Came into the Smithy and pulled a gun on me. I hit him with a hammer and he hit me with a… building.” Bucky thinks of the anvil, the look of relish on Rumlows face. “I pushed him onto the forge. Got pretty burned but he walked away.”  
Steve wraps his arms around Bucky shoulders, his grip tight enough to make his sore muscles complain.  
Bucky reaches up to stroke his fingertips through Steve’s beard. “I’m alright,” he says softly. “Had worse from better.”  
“That’s not as comforting as you might think, Buck.”  
“Any fight you walk away from,” Bucky sighs. He closes his eyes and breathes out, his head a little clearer. “You gonna arrest me, Sheriff?”  
That raises a smile, at least. “Not today.” Steve presses a careful kiss to Bucky's eyebrow. “C’mon,” he chides gently. “On your feet.”  
Bucky grumbles, but lets Steve help him up, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist as they make their way back to the Smithy.


	8. The Striking Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where would we go? There’s always gonna be people like Pierce, wherever we end up.” Steve tugs at Bucky’s sleeves until his arms unfold. “You start running, they’ll never let you stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end, guys!
> 
> Thank you to Eidheann for kicking my sentences into line, you work wonders!
> 
> Vardo - wagon  
> Shukka - beautiful

The Doc doesn’t take kindly to having people hammer down his door in the middle of the night. He lifts the pot of tallow and herbs that he’s been poking at from off the hook over the fire, and sets it down on the hearth. He wipes his hands on his pants and reminds himself of the Hippocratic Oath as he goes to the door.  
“ _Primum non nocere_ ,” he sighs before raising his voice. “Alright, I’m coming.” and shuffles across the floor, pulling the door open.  
The new Sheriff is stood on his threshold, shivering with the cold in just his jacket. The Blacksmith is with him, wrapped up in Steve’s heavy wool overcoat and tucked under his arm, the area around his eye torn and seeping, dried blood caked in his hair and smeared across his face.  
The Doc says nothing, stepping back and ushering them in.  
“Thank you,” the Sheriff utters, his voice strained.  
The Doc pulls out a chair from his desk and motions for Steve to get the Blacksmith sat down while he gets some water boiling, filling a kettle and hooking it in place over the fire. He glances over and sees Steve rubbing the Blacksmith’s shoulders, talking to him quietly. There is a softness in his expression, a gentleness in his touch that the Doc recognises. He’s seen it a hundred times or more tending to the sick and dying.  
_Good_ , he thinks to himself. He’s never met two more stubborn and contrary individuals, they’re perfect for each other. He fetches a lantern and sets it on the table, noting the way the Sheriff stays close, a hand on the Blacksmith’s shoulder at all times, keeping him steady.  
“This anything to do with the gunfire I heard earlier?” the Doc asks, wary of his patient quietly bleeding out on him while they talk.  
“Yes,” the Sheriff says quietly. “Says he wasn’t hit, though.” He tightens his grip on the Blacksmith's shoulder, and the Blacksmith reaches up to pat the back the Sheriff's hand. “He’s a bit… loopy.”  
The Doc hums to himself and checks the Blacksmith's pupils. “You hit your head?” A nod. “You lose consciousness at any point?”  
“Don’t think so,” the Blacksmith rasps. He shakes his head, slow and overcautious.  
“Okay, I’m going to listen to your heart. Don’t try and murder me.”  
The Blacksmith snorts, and the Doc leans forward, pressing an ear to his chest. The heart sounds good, the breathing regular. He straightens up and holds out a finger, covers one of the Blacksmiths eyes and tells him to follow it as he moves it back and forth between them, repeating the process with the other eye. He nods to himself before reaching up to touch the Blacksmith's face. He twitches, but lets the Doc press around his eye and cheek, checking for fractures.  
“Blink for me?” he checks for any unusual movement. “Open and close your mouth,” the Doc demonstrates, and the Blacksmith copies his movements. “Any double vision? Pain in your jaw?” The Blacksmith shakes his head.  
“Orbital area is fine, anterior and lateral maxillary sinus walls are intact,” he prods the Blacksmith's cheek. “Zygomatic arch shows no sign of fracture.”  
“What?” the Blacksmith frowns.  
The Doc smiles at him. “You’re fine.”  
The Sheriff shakes his head. “But he’s…”  
“Lethargic?” the Doc asks. The Sheriff nods, and the Doc turns to the Blacksmith. “I take it you got into a fight? A bad one by the state of you.”  
The Blacksmith nods. “Rumlow paid me a visit.”  
The Doc can’t help but be a little impressed, he can’t think of many people who could walk away from a fight with Brock Rumlow, and he’s tended to far too many souls who haven’t.  
“The body is a contained unit. What goes in stays in until it runs its course,” the Doc takes off his glasses and cleans them on his sleeve. “And when you push the limits of your endurance. Well, there are consequences.” 

The kettle starts to whistle, and the Doc gets to his feet, picking up a cloth and lifting the kettle off the flames, pouring some of the water into a bowl and taking it back to the table. He hands Steve a clean cloth. “I figure he’s less likely to fuss if you clean the wounds.”  
The Sheriff nods, takes the cloth and dips it into the hot water. He holds the Blacksmith steady with a gentle hand under his chin while he dabs at the wounds.  
“Don’t be shy,” the Doc adds, rummaging through one of his boxes. “They need cleaning out thorough.”  
The Blacksmith flinches as the Sheriff works, but doesn’t pull away, resting his chin on the Sheriff's palm while he scrubs away the blood and grit.  
“He’ll be okay?” the Sheriff asks, keeping his eyes on his task.  
The Doc finds the jar of ointment he was looking for and brings it over, setting it on the table in front of the Sheriff. “He’ll sleep it off. Come back if he gets a pain in his jaw or can’t focus. This’ll help with the bruising.”  
The Sheriff murmurs a thank you and unscrews the jar. Inside is a thick, sweet scented paste, pale yellow in colour. He dips a finger in the jar and spreads it along the Blacksmith's cheek, murmuring an apology when he complains that it stings.  
The Doc gives them as much privacy as he can, busying himself on the other side of the room making up a tea blend of willow bark to relieve pain. He can hear them talking softly, the Sheriff's voice heavy with concern, the Blacksmith’s soothing and low.  
He tips the herbs into an envelope and writes the dosage instructions on the front, seals it up and takes it over to the Sheriff, waiting for him to screw the lid on the jar of ointment and wipe off his hands.  
“Don’t cover it up, let the air to it,” he says as he hands over the envelope.  
The Sheriff slips it into his pocket along with the ointment. “Thank you, Doc.”  
The Doc waves a hand at them. “Well, if neither of you are dying, get out.”  
The Blacksmith chuckles and gets up, already looking steadier. “C’mon, Steve. Let's give the man some peace.”  
The Doc holds the door open, waving off offers of payment. The Sheriff thanks him again before leading the Blacksmith down the road towards the Smithy, a hand resting on the small of his back.

Steve wakes up, instinctively reaching out, and finds the other side of the bed empty. He sits up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, and listens for any sounds in the Smithy.  
It’s quiet. Much too quiet.  
He panics, grabs his pants up off the floor and pulls them on, hissing when his feet hit the cold stone floor. He steps into his boots and pulls on yesterday's shirt, still stained with blood at the shoulder from where Bucky had leaned against him. The gun belt is buckled in place next, and he lifts the coat off the steamer trunk as he hurries into the forge.  
The fire is alight, the battered coffee pot sitting in the embers. Steve threads his arms through the sleeve of his coat, tugging over his shoulders as he goes to the heavy side doors, cracked open to let in light. He pushes them open and looks across the clearing, down to the paddock where Bucky is stood, scratching Rakli behind the ears, a brightly coloured blanket draped across the horse's back. Bucky has had the sense to wear his duster in the early morning chill, at least. Steve feels the fingers clamped around his heart loosen, and he can breathe again.  
He walks slowly across the clearing, boots crunching on the frost rimed dirt. Rakli lifts her head and whickers at him, and Bucky turns with her, smiling at Steve’s approach.  
“You dress in the dark, Sheriff?” he teases.  
He looks better, his eyes clear, his movements relaxed and assured. The swelling has gone down around his eye, and the cuts have scabbed over, thanks to the Doc’s ointment.  
Steve looks down at himself, at his muddy pants and blood stained shirt.  
“I woke up and you were gone,” he mumbles, looking down at his shirt tails hanging loose. “May have overreacted.”  
Bucky smiles and holds his arm out, Steve takes the offering and presses up against his side, tucking his arm under Bucky’s duster and around his waist, fingers curling at his hip.  
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Bucky murmurs, sliding his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him a little closer.  
Steve presses a cautious finger to the swelling around Bucky's eye. “You feeling okay?”  
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He gives Steve a rueful smile. “Good thing you’re not just after me for my looks.”  
Steve frowns at him, and pointedly kisses him just to the side of each injury, starting with the scratch on his temple and ending at his cheek. Then, because he’s already right there, presses his lips to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Looking mighty fine,” he breathes as Bucky turns his head and kisses him, slow and tender. Steve cups his jaw and presses brief, brushing kisses in return, answering every touch of Bucky’s mouth with one of his own.

“This was all woodland when I first came,” Bucky eases his fingers through Steve’s hair. “The winter of eighteen seventy. There wasn’t really a town back then. Just a fork in the road with a few covered wagons and tents. People worked fast though, bringing down the trees. More for firewood than anything, but they started building. Right in the middle of the damned fork, so the road had to divert around them.”  
“They built in the road?” Steve raises his head off Bucky’s shoulder.  
“Well, it was a flat, cleared piece of land,” Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t much feel like being in the thick of it, so I pegged off this area. Cleared it, used the wood to make the paddock or traded it with other settlers. Spent the whole winter making charcoal.”  
“Who else was there? Back at the start?”  
Bucky leans back against the paddock gate, looking down at the creek below and the wood-lined hills beyond. “Nick. I don’t even know if he came from anywhere, he probably sprang out of the earth.” Steve snorts into his shirt. “Clint has been here as long as I have, Abraham came a while after. Maria the following summer, along with Thor and Natasha. Sam and the Doc came in the autumn, all in a rush to get their buildings up before winter set in.”  
“Pierce?” Steve asks.  
Bucky frowns. “He came on the sly, sent people out to build for him, then arrived in a train of carriages, all decked out with signs advertising girls and gambling.”  
“I bet that went down well,” Steve growls.  
“As well as can be expected. Prospectors loved it, thought it meant we were all real special.” Bucky snorts.  
He looks down at the creek, the clear water flowing over the stones.  
“Built this place out of nothing. Dragged stones out of the river, piled them up on the _vardo_ and brought them back here. Laid them down, one by one.”  
Steve thinks of the jagged flat stones that make the Smithy walls, the round edged river stones that chill his feet every morning, the carefully chosen pieces that make the forge.  
Bucky strokes his fingers across the nape of Steve’s neck, slow and soothing.  
“Luis is due in town any day now,” Bucky says slowly. “We could go with him.”  
Steve feels a chill in his gut that has nothing to do with the cold. “What?”  
“We could leave,” Buck bites the inside of his cheek. “Start over. You and me.”  
Steve straightens up, pulling away from Bucky and turning to face him. “What?”  
Bucky lifts his chin, defiant and bruised. “We find some place else. Start over.”  
For a moment Steve can’t speak, just stares as Bucky crosses his arms across his chest.  
“This is home,” he says quietly.  
“It’s not worth getting killed for,” Bucky whispers.  
Steve shakes his head. “Where would we go? There’s always gonna be people like Pierce, wherever we end up.” Steve tugs at Bucky’s sleeves until his arms unfold. “You start running, they’ll never let you stop. We’ll always be looking over our shoulders, waiting for someone to figure out what we are, to come after us.” He reaches up to brush his fingertips against the line of Bucky's jaw. “So we stand up. We push back. We fight.”  
Bucky reaches out for him, wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and kisses him, fast and rough and filthy, pressing his tongue between Steve's teeth until he opens his mouth and swallows him up. Steve tangles his fingers in Bucky's dark hair and pulls him closer, doesn’t care if someone sees them, doesn’t care about anything but the arms around him, the graze of teeth against teeth and the hot, slick press of tongues.

Bucky hustles Steve into the Smithy to warm up, pressing a tin mug of coffee into his cold hands and grumbling about running around in November without an overcoat. Steve bites back the urge to call Bucky out on his double standards and sips his coffee, hot and bitter on his tongue.  
He watches Bucky clearing up after the events of the previous day, collecting up the tools strewn about the room and scrubbing the blood off the punch, growling at Steve to sit his arse down every time he gets up to help. Steve sets his jaw and pointedly washes the blood off the wall while Bucky throws hot water on the floor and works at the bloodstained stones with a stiff broom.  
He set out his tools for the day, refilling the charcoal bucket and raking out the coals before fixing Steve with a glare.  
“Go to work, Sheriff.”  
Steve folds his arms across his chest and gives Bucky a mulish look.  
Bucky gives him an exasperated smile. “I’ll be fine. Rumlow isn't coming back any time soon. If he does, I’ll whack him a little harder.”  
Steve snorts. “Buck…”  
“Go back to your place, get cleaned up. Get changed. Go to work,” Bucky says firmly. “Then come home, alright?”  
Steve smiles, warm and small and sweet. “Okay.”  
Bucky pushes a piece of iron into the fire. “Maybe bring a change of clothes with you?”  
Steve flushes pink around the ears. “Sure thing, Buck.”  
Bucky clears his throat. “C’mon, let’s get you straightened out.”  
Steve tucks the tails of his shirt into his pants, and hold still while Bucky straightens out his collar and brushes off his coat.  
“Do I pass muster?” he asks slyly.  
Bucky sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “Not even slightly.”  
Steve pulls on his overcoat and presses a goodbye kiss to Bucky’s unmarred cheek before putting on his hat and promising to be back later.  
“You’d better,” Bucky mutters, returning to work.

Steve traipses across town, keeping the brim of his hat pulled low. The street is quiet for so early on a cold morning, but he still greets the people he passes, wishing them good day. The Hardware Store is still closed, though Pietro isn’t sat out front with his loaded shotgun. He hasn’t been for weeks, since having a Jailhouse in town puts off most raiders and bandits from trying their luck.  
Steve walks through the front yard and up to the porch of the Sheriff’s house, unlocking the door with his heavy iron key. It’s dark inside, the air musty and cold. He finds a lantern and a book of matches in the bedroom, strikes a match and lights the wick, catching his fingers in the flame and hissing, shaking his hand. He sets the lantern on the mantelpiece and goes out back to get fresh water.  
There’s frost dusting the scrubby grass in the back yard, crunching underfoot as he goes down to the well to draw water. He looks back at the house, silent and waiting.  
It was never really his, he thinks. Too big and too exposed for him to ever feel safe in. He should talk to Sam, find some new owners. He grimaces, Sam will have questions about that, piled up alongside the ones Steve still hasn’t answered. He sighs and carries the water back up to the house. He can’t say how Sam will react to the news about him and Bucky, he can only hope to trust in his friend.  
He washes his face and hands, changes out of his muddy, blood-stained clothes, and combs his hair. He unpacks his saddle bags, going through his few possessions and picking out the items he wants to take with him. There is little to choose from; his journal and toiletries already stored at the Smithy along with a handful of books and a few items of clothing. He decides to take everything; the last few items of clothing, his pencils and travel blanket. He folds them up and packs them into the saddlebag, hefting it up with one arm and blowing out the lantern. He locks the door behind him and walks down to the Jailhouse, setting the bag down by his desk. The Hardware Store is opening its doors, so he goes to pay Sam a visit.

“Hey there, do I know you?” Sam teases. “Have we met before?”  
Steve shakes his head, feeling guilty. They’ve barely spoken in the last week. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”  
Sam laughs it off. “Don’t worry about it. What brings you here?”  
Steve glances around them. “Can we talk some place private?”  
Sam's expression changes, switching from open and light to serious. He wordlessly leads Steve to the back room, sending Wanda out front to keep an eye on the store.  
Sam folds his arms across his chest and levels his gaze at Steve. “What’s going on?”  
“Pierce is making his move,” Steve says tightly. “He sent Rumlow after Bucky yesterday.”  
“Bucky?”  
“Barnes. The Blacksmith.” Steve explains.  
Sam hisses between his teeth. “I’m sorry, I know you two were good friends.”  
Steve stares at him. “Bucky’s fine.” He shakes his head. “He’s not fine, Rumlow knocked seven bells out of him, but he gave as good as he got,” Steve can’t keep the pride out of his voice.  
Sam purses his lips. “So Rumlow’s out of the picture?”  
Steve looks doubtful, “For the time being. When I last spoke to Pierce, he mentioned Bucky having an accident, bashing his head open on his anvil. That’s what Rumlow tried to do.”  
“Quite the coincidence.”  
Steve nods. “He mentioned a few other things. The Hardware Store burning down. You getting ambushed by Indians on the road.”  
Sam sighs. “Alright, I’ll watch my back.”  
Steve folds his hands in front of him, bowing his head. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Sam.”  
Sam laughs. “I dragged your dumb ass into this. You’d still be in New York kicking your heels if it wasn’t for me.”  
“Yeah,” Steve can’t help but smile. “I ever thank you for that?”  
“Buy me lunch and we’ll call it even.”  
“That I can do. Come by the Jailhouse?”  
“Sure, you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”  
Steve bites his tongue, no way in hell that’s going to happen.  
Sam leads the way back out to the storefront and Steve heads off to work, pausing to wish Wanda good morning as he passes.

Steve spends the morning on his correspondence and paperwork before doing his rounds in town, following up on any incidents that occurred overnight. The work is time consuming, but a welcome distraction.  
He stops by Maria’s, the few patrons sat around their tables playing poker staring silently at him while he removes his hat and walks over to the bar. He takes a seat, resting his hat on the empty stool beside him, and they return to their games, muttering to each other and tossing their chips down on the tables.  
Maria brings him a cup of her acrid, tarry coffee, and he sips it slowly while he listens to her news. Maria isn’t a gossip, but she has a sharp ear and can read the patterns of conversation, see where a situation is headed.  
There are still murmurs about Indians attacking on the road, though some folks aren’t fooled, and know road agent's work when they see it. Steve finishes his coffee and thanks Maria for her time. She fixes him with a hard stare, and after a moment tells him to watch his back. He wishes her a good day, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers.

Sam is waiting for him at the Hotel, and they take lunch together. Sam spends most of the time complaining about customers in his store. Steve listens with a smile at the stories of accident prone prospectors until Sam points a fork at Steve and says. “So you’re spending a lot of time with Barnes. Should I be jealous?”  
Steve chokes on his mouthful of potato, and Sam gives him a helpful slap on the back.  
“I’m just messing with you. You need all the friends you can get.”  
Steve puts a hand to his mouth and swallows. He should say something, but the words stick in his throat. Sam gives him a gentler, reassuring pat on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” He puts his fork to work on his potatoes. “So what’s the plan with Pierce?”  
Steve takes a sip of coffee. “Wait and see what his next move is.”  
Sam sits back. “Really?”  
Steve nods, confused.  
“Steve Rogers is saying ‘wait and see’?” Sam grins. “Steve ‘I punched out my superior officer and took command because he was,’ and I must quote this, ‘because he was a jackass who couldn’t find his own backside with a map and a compass’ Rogers isn’t going to storm over there, guns blazing, and get himself killed?”  
Steve snorts. “He wasn’t fit to command, you said it yourself.” He pokes at the hard, greying peas on his plate. “He hasn’t done anything. I’ve got one unreliable source saying Pierce paid him to commit murder, who has since skipped town and is unlikely to testify against his employer. Plus unsubstantiated rumours. I can hardly take that to Sioux Falls.” Steve lets his fork drop to the plate. “I gotta wait for him to make a play.”  
Sam chews thoughtfully. “I’d be a lot more worried about that plan if you didn’t have your guard dog.”  
Steve frowns. “Bucky’s not my guard dog.”  
“Yes he is,” Sam says quietly. “Some folks in town may not like him much, but they respect him. He’s been a part of this place since it was a couple of wagons at a crossroads.” Sam points to the Sheriff badge on Steve’s coat. “Day he made you that badge he made his position clear. Anyone going for you would have to get through him first.”  
Steve brushes his fingers across the silver star, pressing his thumb to the underside to feel the embossed cartwheel there.  
“And what does it say about you, that he made a badge for you too?” Steve asks softly.  
Sam quirks his lip in a half smile. “Say’s Barnes’ll do anything you ask him.”

Sam and Steve part ways after lunch and Steve crosses the street to pay a visit on the Doc.  
“What?” the Doc grumbles as he opens the door. “Who’s dying now?”  
Steve holds his hands up. “No one’s dying, Doc. At least no one that I know of.”  
The Doc scowls at him, his greying curls falling in his eyes. “I suppose you want to come in,” he mutters and steps back, pulling the door open.”  
“Thank you,” Steve takes off his hat and dodges the bundles of herbs swinging from the rafters.  
The Doc pushes the door closed and shuffles around him to the table, where he has a piece of cheesecloth tied to the four legs of an upturned stool, suspended over a large jug. The Doc picks up a pan half full of twigs and leaves and hot tallow, and slowly pours the fat onto the cloth, watching it strain through and trickle into the jug..  
“Can’t rush it, if you want the ointment to be clear. And residual plant matter will cause spoilage.” Steve nods, breathing in the pungent, earthy scent. “How’s the Blacksmith?”  
“He’s well, thank you.”  
“No dizzyness? No arrhythmia?” Steve looks confused. “Irregular heartbeat.”  
Steve shakes his head. “Bucky’s fine.”  
The Doc pours a little more fat through the cheesecloth. “What do you want, then?”  
Steve takes the pan when it’s thrust into his hands, watching as the Doc arranges several small glass jars on the table. The Doc takes the pan back, holding it under the cheesecloth and unhooking the corners from the stool, gathering the bundle of twigs and cloth in the pan and placing it to one side.  
“Have you seen anything of Brock Rumlow?”  
The Doc starts filling the glass jars from the jug of tallow. “Recently? No.” He glances at Steve. “Blacksmith said he came off badly in the fight. You looking for him?”  
Steve nods. “I figured he would have sought out treatment for his injuries.”  
The Doc fills the last jar and hums thoughtfully while he screws on the lids. “He works for Pierce? Well, he supposedly has his own physician. Never actually seen the feller,” the Doc grumbles. “More likely he’s holed up somewhere seeking comfort in a bottle.”  
Steve nods. “Thank you for your time, Doc.”  
The Doc mumbles and points him to the door, and Steve leaves him in peace.

Bucky looks up from his work and finds Steve in the doorway, a saddlebag and travelling blanket slung over one shoulder. His mouth twitches up and he looks down at his work, hammering a piece of iron into shape. “Well, look who came back,” he says softly, shifting the hot iron to the hole in the anvil and picking up a punch, driving four holes into one end of the flat, wide piece of metal. He puts down the punch and moves the piece to the edge of the anvil, hammering it into a U shape. He compares it to another piece on the table, checking that they’re the same size and shape, before giving it a last few taps and quenching it in the water bucket.  
Steve lets his saddle bag drop to the floor, and pulls the door closed behind him, pushing the bolt home while Bucky arranges the four finished pieces on the table.  
Bucky glances at the door and gives Steve a sly smile. “You getting restless, Sheriff?”  
Steve flushes, but takes off his hat and overcoat, hanging them up on their hook before unfastening the gunbelt and setting it on the floor. He keeps his head held high as he walks over to the Blacksmith. “And what if I am?”  
The twitching lips become a full grin, and Bucky meets him halfway, bringing warm, rough hands up to rest on his hips as Steve dips his head and kisses him, a light brush of greeting.  
“That all you got?” Bucky teases, walking backwards, dragging Steve by the waist until his back hits the wall. He trails his fingers upwards, under Steve’s coat, pressing palms to his broad shoulders and easing him into slow, lazy kisses. Steve presses against him, hands cupping his jaw and tilting his head up, letting out soft gasps when Bucky bites down on his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth. Bucky lets his hands work their way downwards, stroking across Steve’s stomach before moving lower, pressing the heel of his hand to the placket of his pants and rubbing against the hard length of his cock.  
“What say we mess up your nice shirt?” Bucky rumbles into his mouth.  
Steve sucks in a breath, and Bucky takes that as a yes, working open the buttons of his fly and sliding his hand, rough and warm, under the cotton and curling his fingers around Steve’s cock.  
Bucky swallows Steve’s gasp, flicking his tongue between his teeth. Steve chases it, pulls Bucky’s tongue into his mouth and suckles. He pushes his hand between the press of their bodies, working open Bucky’s canvas trousers and pushing them down his hips. Bucky huffs against his mouth, keeping one hand wrapped around Steve’s hard length while the other shoves his pants down to mid thigh. He braces his back against the wall, gripping Steve by the backside and pulling their bodies flush, their cocks pressing together. Steve braces his forearms against the wall either side of Bucky’s shoulders, sliding his tongue into Bucky’s mouth as he thrusts against him, Bucky cupping the tops of his thighs and urging him on.  
They move together, messy and uncoordinated and blissful, Bucky rucking up Steves shirt to thumb at his nipples while he grips Bucky by the shoulders, pressing their foreheads together as he shudders and comes. Steve catches his breath, and nuzzles Bucky’s jawline, closing his fist around his cock and tugging until Bucky spills over his fingers and kisses him, rough and bruising.  
“ _Shukka_ ,” Bucky breathes into his mouth. 

They get themselves cleaned up, and Bucky takes great care straightening out Steve’s collar and cuffs before rinsing out the coffee pot and refilling it, setting it on the embers of the forge.  
He cleans off a shovel and sets it in the fire, adding a twist of lard and cracking eggs on the edge with quick, deft motions, breaking them open one-handed into the hot fat. Steve cuts thick slices of bread and toasts them over the coals, dropping them onto a plate for Bucky to top with the fried eggs while he pours the coffee. They eat with their fingers as they sit side by side at the table, pressed together from shoulder to knee.  
Bucky wipes off his hands on his trouser legs and presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, bringing the lantern to the table for him while he gets on with his ironwork.  
Steve remains at the table with his journal, ostensibly making notes, but mostly watching Bucky at work, hammering a piece of iron into a miner's pick. Steve watches as he starts in the center, making a slot in the glowing metal with a chisel and widening it by hammering a metal spike through it,flipping the piece over and repeating it on the other side until he has a perfect round hole. He reheats the piece, holds it in place with a pair of tongs and hammers either end into a sharp point. Bucky pushes the pick back into the fire and glances up at Steve, who flushes when he’s caught watching. Bucky winks at him and takes the pick head out of the flames, finishing it with taps from a flat nosed hammer, turning it on the anvil to check the lines and tapping again before calling it done and quenching it in the water bucket.  
Steve bows his head and goes back to his book. He gives up on writing and starts to sketch instead; Bucky stood over the anvil, head bowed, hammer in hand.  
They both look up when there someone starts hammering on the door.

Steve is on his feet first, striding over to the heavy side doors. He reaches down for his gun belt and pulls out a pistol, cocking it and glancing over his shoulder at Bucky, who has his hammer in his hand, his stance firm, his shoulders back.  
Steve pulls back the bolt and cracks open the door.  
“Steve?” Sam says from the other side. His expression strange, surprised and relieved and something painfully like horror.  
Steve pushes open the door, letting him in before closing it and shoving the bolt back in place. He bends down to slide his pistol back into its holster.  
Sam takes in the room, Bucky at his anvil, the lantern on the table next to Steve’s journal. Two tin mugs. Two plates.  
“I went looking for you at your house, but you weren’t there,” Sam says quietly. “There was nothing there, like the place had been cleaned out.” He takes a step back, his boot brushing the saddle bag and gun belt piled on the floor. He glances down at them, sees Steve’s coat and hat hanging on the wall. “I thought you’d left town. Or worse. Came here to see Barnes.”  
Bucky sets his hammer down on the table. “What’s happened?”  
Sam stares at Steve, like he doesn’t recognise him.  
“Sam, what’s going on?” Steve asks warily.  
“Rumlow is in town. His face is a mess,” Sam glances at Bucky, who doesn’t look away. “He’s in the Union, stirring up trouble, all liquored up and getting a fire lit under their asses.”  
“Sam?” Steve feels a tremor in his hands.  
“They’re coming after you,” Sam’s voice sounds strange, hollow. “They say you’re… You and the Blacksmith are sodomites,” he looks between Bucky and Steve. “They’re going to hang you for it.”  
Steve lets out a soft, broken sound, hears the sound of Bucky crossing the floor, his boots loud on the stones, stones he dredged up from a river in the freezing winter.  
“Is it true?” Sam whispers.  
Bucky reaches out to Steve, wraps both arms around him, pressing his chest to Steve’s back. Steve stumbles and leans back into Bucky’s embrace, reaching up to clasp their hands together, knuckles white.  
“Is it true?”


	9. From The Cinder-Strew'd Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wants to shake his head. He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready. He wants to stay here, wants to live, wants to sleep in a wrought iron bed and drink bitter coffee from a tin mug. He wants to warm his hands over the forge on a cold day. He wants to sleep with his head on Bucky’s shoulder and his arm around Bucky’s waist. He wants to kiss him goodbye in the mornings and hello in the evenings. He wants to live.  
> “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. Damn, but I'm sorry to see this story end. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, left comments and recced. I love you all, you want a jellyfish?!  
> Thank you to Eidheann for kicking my ass, and the Squid Squad for their boundless enthusiasm.
> 
> And special thanks to Cryo-Bucky for the AMAZING art!  
> https://cryo-bucky.tumblr.com
> 
> Want to see me stress over wips and repost the knife fight from winter soldier again and again? Come find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)
> 
> Avveta - come here  
> rommado - a married man  
> Dinlo - idiot  
> Estás loco de mierda - you’re fucking crazy

_“Is it true?”_  
Sam takes in the sight of Steve, pale and unsteady on his feet. Of Barnes, his face bruised and crusted with blood, crossing the floor and bracing himself against Steve's back, wrapping arms around his waist. The way Steve crumples against him, their hands finding each others and grasping.  
He sees the way Steve draws strength from the touch, the way Barnes presses his mouth to the nape of his neck in a gesture of comfort rather than desire.  
“Yes,” Steve says quietly, meeting Sam’s eyes.  
Sam turns away and paces across the floor. All the fear and anger that had boiled up in him in the race across town churning in his gut. “Were you planning on ever telling me?” he snaps.  
Barnes murmurs in Steve’s ear, gently unclasping their hands before he gives Steve a gentle shove towards Sam and walking back to the table and picking up four pieces of metal lying there. He goes over to the shelves and reaches into a jar before returning to the doors and gives Steve another nudge.  
“Go on,” Bucky murmurs.  
Barnes starts clearing the tools hanging on the doors, dropping them in a clattering heap on the floor. Steve takes a breath and takes the final few steps over to where Sam is pacing, and silently leads him to the backroom to talk in private.

Sam looks around the room, taking in the unmade bed and tangled blankets, the pile of books on the floor, and Steve thinks that maybe it wasn’t the best place to have this conversation. He can hear the irregular tapping sounds of Bucky nailing ironwork onto the doors.  
“I was going to tell you Sam, I just didn’t know how. I didn’t know how you’d react,” Steve says earnestly.  
Sam hisses and waves him away. “We’ve known each other for what? Ten years? And you couldn’t…” Sam doesn’t know what to say, so he lets the words fall away, unfinished.  
Steve lets out a deep, bone-weary sigh and brushes his hand across the bedstead, his fingers following the curls of iron.  
“I was still a kid when my Ma got sick. Consumption,” he says softly. “She fought it, fought it a long time, but she couldn’t shake it. After she died I… didn’t see the point in a lot of things.” Steve follows the pattern of iron. The circles and spokes. “Then the war started, and I thought that was something, something I could believe in. And I still do. I believe in it, in what we fought for. Just… not how we fought.” He shakes his head. “And when it was all over, I went back to New York and I felt. Nothing. Like I’d been hollowed out. I thought… I thought that part of me was broken, that I could never… feel like that. About anyone.” He shrugs. “And then I met him.”  
Sam takes a step towards him. “You don’t know him,” he hisses. “You don’t know anything about him. He could be a murderer, he could be a Confederate…”  
“He was a sergeant,” Steve snaps.  
That stops Sam in his tracks. “Barnes?” he says dully.  
Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “I wrote a letter to Colonel Phillips when I first came to town, asked him to make some enquiries. Bucky was a sergeant in the 69th New York Infantry.”  
“The Irish Brigade?” Sam asks, surprised.  
Steve nods, and Sam falls silent. The whole Smithy is silent, Steve realises. He can’t hear the sound of hammering anymore. He looks up to the doorway, where Bucky is stood. He turns away, his face hidden in the shadows, and returns to the forge.

 _Damnit_.  
Steve hurries after him, calling out, but Bucky pulls the bolts back, pushes open the door and walks outside, boots crunching on the frosty grass, a claw hammer swinging loosely in his hand. Steve doesn’t hesitate, leaving Sam in the Smithy to follow him across the clearing and down to the paddock.  
“Bucky,” Steve says again, more softly this time.  
Bucky scratches Rakli behind the ear and starts walking around the paddock, testing the strength of the the boards nailed to the upright posts.  
He glances at Steve. “You been asking questions about me?”  
Steve bows his head. “Buck, it’s not…” Steve runs his hand through his hair, watching warily as Bucky levers off one of the lower boards with the hammer. “I wrote a letter, after we first met. When I brought Brooklyn over for a new shoe?” Bucky nods, hammering each nail out of the board. levering them out with the claw of his hammer and putting them in his pocket.  
Steve shifts from foot to foot. “You made me uncomfortable.”  
Bucky sets the piece of wood down and gives Steve a surprised look. “Uncomfortable?”  
“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, carefully. “You know. Restless.” He dares a glance up. Bucky doesn’t look angry, he doesn’t look betrayed or hurt. His mouth is curled up at the corner, looking at Steve with so much affection it makes his heart ache.  
“You couldn’t come to me?” Bucky mutters, removing another board from the fence.  
“And get a punch in the face?”  
Bucky snorts. “True.”  
Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t read it for a long while, just carried it around in my coat pocket.”  
“But you did read it,” Bucky confirms, hammering nails out of the second plank.  
Steve takes a few moment to answer. “I thought you were dying. The fever was getting worse, and I was just trying to keep you alive, keep you calm.” He takes a step closer. “I read it because it didn’t matter what it said, I was already…” he pauses, aware of Sam stood at the Smithy doors, watching them. “My heart was set.”  
Bucky sighs and sets down his hammer. “You make it hard to be mad at you sometimes.”  
Steve reaches out to snag Bucky’s sleeve with a finger, hooking it into the fabric. Bucky closes the last little space between them to press their foreheads together, intimate and sweet, then rub his nose to Steve’s cheek and push hard enough to make him list a little, like a ship at sea. It’s not a kiss, but it’s the closest thing to one he can offer while being observed, and Steve is grateful for it. For him.  
“What did it say?” Bucky withdraws, too soon for Steve’s liking and picks up the two planks, tucking them under his arm.  
Steve picks up the hammer, still clutching Bucky’s sleeve with his other hand. “You were a sergeant in the Irish Brigade. Your commanding officer spoke highly of you,” Steve searches his memory as they start walking back to the Smithy. “Vauge a…”  
_“fág an bealach,_ ” Bucky says fondly.  
“What does it mean?”  
Bucky snorts. “Clear the way.”

Sam watches them approaching, his arms folded over his chest. Steve lets go of Bucky’s sleeve as they reach the Smithy doors, and stops in front of Sam while Bucky takes the wooden boards inside.  
“Sam?” Steve says quietly.  
“How long?” Sam sighs, all the fight drained out of him.  
Steve brushes his fingers over the silver star on his coat. The words come easily. “Since the smallpox outbreak.”  
“I should have known,” Sam sucks air between his teeth. “I take it you’re not doing the smart thing and leaving?”  
Steve smiles. “This is home.”  
Sam takes in the stone walls, stubborn and proud and resilient and groans heavily. “Alright. Barton’s got a sister with a couple of kids. She lost her husband a while back, been looking for some place closer to her kin. If you’re sure you’ve got no use for that house?”  
“That sounds great, Sam.” Steve says gently.  
They both turn to the doors as Bucky pushes them open and gives Steve an expectant look.  
“You should get out of here,” Steve tells him.  
Sam shakes his head. “And leave you without backup?”  
“Don’t give them an excuse,” Steve utters sharply.  
Sam scowls at him, and opens his mouth to argue but Bucky interrupts.  
“Sam? Would you do me a kindness?”  
Sam is briefly thrown by the softness in his voice. “Sure.”  
“Would you take my horse to Odinson?” Bucky points to the paddock. “We can hold up a while in the Smithy, but I don’t like the thought of her being out here with the mob.”  
Sam doesn’t hesitate to agree, and Bucky walks over to the paddock to open the gate, leading the horse down to him. He scratches her ears before fetching the bridle and buckling it in place.  
“If things go south, he’s welcome to keep her,” Bucky says quietly, patting the horse's neck.  
Sam takes the reins offered to him, uncertain how to respond.  
“Don’t let her have too many apples, they’re bad for her stomach,” Bucky adds hesitantly. Steve puts a hand to the small of Bucky’s back while he sniffs and scratches the horse's cheek.  
“You should go, it’s not safe.” Steve says quietly. “Thank you, Sam.”  
Sam shakes his head and gives Steve a hug, hard and brief. “Dumbass,” he mutters.  
Steve pats him on the back, and takes a firm step back to the Smithy doors. Bucky sniffs again and stomps off to the well to collect water, leaving Steve to say goodbye alone.  
He watches Sam and Rakli walk down to the road and out of sight before Bucky returns and calls for him to come inside.

Steve closes the door and pushes the bolt across, stepping back while Bucky lifts up the boards from the paddock and slots them into the pieces of iron he has nailed on the doors. He gives them an experimental shove and the bars hold.  
He looks over at Steve. “You sure about this?”  
Steve nods and presses their shoulders together. “You?”  
“Nowhere I’d rather be.”  
Bucky picks up a lantern and turns up the flame, casting amber light into the room.  
“C’mon, we’d better go secure the front.”  
They walk to the front room, Steve stowing away the order book and clearing the counter while Bucky locks the front door. They each take an end of the counter and move it across the floor, barricading the door. There are no windows in the room to break, just stone walls and a rough wooden door. Steve looks up at the rafters.  
“Can they burn us out?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “Stone walls and the roof is iron,” he shrugs. “Mostly.”  
“Good place for a stand-off,” Steve says absently.  
Bucky pats him on the shoulder. “Well, if you’re working with fire all day, you’re best off in a place that won’t choke you or burn down on you.”  
Steve suppresses a shudder and follows Bucky back to the forge as he puts the lantern onto the table and picks up the coffee pot, emptying the dregs into the quenching bucket and refilling it with water and coffee grounds. He rakes over the coals in the forge and sets the pot in the embers. He looks up at Steve, leaning against the wall, and sets down his poker, padding silently over to his side.  
“ _Avveta_ ,” he pulls Steve into his arms, curling around him. Steve presses his face to Bucky’s throat, twisting fingers in the coarse cotton of his shirt while Bucky smooths his hands across Steve’s broad shoulders, murmuring words of comfort in a language familiar and strange.

Steve shifts on the bed, propped up on the pillows and folded blankets. Bucky grumbles at him for moving, head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder, the palm of his hand resting on his stomach. Steve loses his place, flipping through the book until he finds the right page again and using Bucky’s shoulder as a bookrest. He rests the hand not holding the pages open between Bucky’s shoulder blades and hushes him, waiting for him to settle before he begins reading.

_Blacksmith with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,_  
_From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movement_  
_The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms_  
_Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure_  
_They do not hasten, each man hits in his place._

Bucky snorts. “What’re you trying to tell me, Steve?”  
Steve marks the page with his index finger and closes the book. “Nothing. It just made me think.”  
Bucky hums to himself and taps his fingers on Steve’s stomach in a staccato rhythm for a while before speaking. “I’d be _rommado_ , if I could,” he says suddenly, like the words had been clustered in his throat too long and had suddenly come spilling out. “And you. We’d go up into the hills, take a walk until we found a plant with yellow flowers, and thorns and little green leaves. I’d take you by the hands and we’d step over it.”  
Steve wrinkles his brow, confused. “You’d drag me up to the hills so we could climb over some bushes?”  
Bucky smiles and presses a kiss to his jaw. “I’d forge you a ring out of iron, black as a cinder.” He reaches up to Steve’s wrist, tracing his fingers along the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t have to wear it, or tie it round your neck with a piece of string or anything. But you’d have it.”  
Steve dips his head and buries his face in Bucky’s hair. He smells of leather and soot and lamp oil. “I’d wear it,” he insists. “I’d wear it always.”

They are sat at the table, drinking coffee while Bucky slowly reads aloud from _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ , when the mob comes for them.  
Bucky sits bolt upright, losing his place on the page where his finger had been carefully following the line of text. Steve rises to his feet, motioning for Bucky to stay where he is, and walks quietly to the front room, leaving the lantern behind. The light would shine in the darkness and give them away, so he moves carefully through the gloom without making a sound until he reaches the barricaded door. There are gaps in the stone wall, positioned for ventilation, and he puts his eye to one. He hears movement behind him, and the press of Bucky’s shoulder against his, a warning of his presence before he speaks.  
“Are they building a gallows?” Bucky murmurs.  
“No,” Steve whispers, staring out into the street.  
There are half a dozen men stood in the road outside the Smithy, headed by Brock Rumlow. The left side of his face is a twisted mess of swollen red flesh and blackened skin, his eye pulled half closed, his stubble patchy around his jaw. He’s clutching a half empty bottle of whiskey and swearing at the men around him, unsteady on his feet.  
Steve recognises a few of them. Rollins at his side, cradling a shotgun. Hodges tearing down one of the nearby stalls, piling the broken boards and torn canvas into a heap, the man working with him, a prospector Steve doesn’t know the name of, thrusts a burning torch into the heap until it catches light.  
Steve pulls back from the gap and moves aside to let Bucky take a look. “That didn’t take long,” Bucky growls and turns, making his way back to the light and warmth of the forge.  
Steve takes another look through the ventilation hole. There is another bonfire being built, the men tearing down anything made of wood to build it, snarling and waving their weapons at anyone who tries to stop them. He follows Bucky back to the forge to find him making a fresh pot of coffee.  
“I counted six,” Steve points out. “We can take on six.”  
Bucky makes no comment, emptying out the dregs of coffee from the mugs into the quenching bucket.  
“We could go out there now and be done with it,” Steve adds.  
Bucky shakes his head. “Second you open that door you’ll get a bullet in the head.” He sets the cups on the table. “We can see six of them, but how many more are out of sight, hiding in the shadows? You really think Pierce sent six men to take us down?” Bucky shakes his head again and pours the coffee.  
“So what are we waiting for?” Steve takes the coffee offered to him.  
Bucky lifts the mug to his lips, breathing in the bitter aroma. “A conversation.”

Bucky rakes the fire, sticking the poker into the center of the mound of coals, burning cherry red and dusted with ash. It’s been quiet. Too quiet. So Bucky stirs at the coals and he waits while Steve sits at the table reading out passages from his book.  
_Leaves of Grass_. An odd name, Bucky ponders. Inconsequential and crushed underfoot. Resolute and persistent, pushing its way through stone and brick, seeking out the sun.  
Steve has been checking out front every so often. Over the past few hours Rumlow and his gang have blocked off the road outside the Smithy and built a semicircle of bonfires, the air thick with the scent of burning pine, embers twisting up into the night sky. The road agents at Rumlow’s heel have been tearing down the stalls and tents that line the street to feed the flames.  
Bucky had checked an air vent by the side doors and seen half a dozen road agents spread out in the clearing alongside the Smithy, the paddock torn down and used to build another fire. They’ve made no attempt to storm the building, no effort to force open the doors, having enough sense to understand that any door they break down will have someone pissed off and holding a weapon on the other side of it. So for now they seem content to wait.  
Rumlow has shouted for them a few times, taunts and threats that neither paid much attention to. He’s worked his way through that bottle of whiskey and has started on another, although from seeing the wreckage that was his face, it’s not that surprising.  
Steve puts a scrap of paper in the book to mark his page and gets up.  
Bucky doesn’t try to stop him, looking up from the fire to watch him disappear into the darkened front room and wait for him to return with a report.  
It’s a long while before Steve comes back, his face pale in the lantern light.  
“Steve?” Bucky takes a few hesitant steps towards him, lifts his hands up to press against his jaw, furred with dark gold. “Steve?”  
He’s shivering, fine tremors in his hands as they reach up and wrap around Bucky’s wrists. He swallows, like there’s an unpleasant taste in his mouth, something stuck in his throat that he can’t dislodge.  
“What did you see?” Bucky rubs his thumbs against Steve’s beard.  
Steve blinks and finally sees him. He looks shocked, he looks wounded.  
“The whole damn town is out there, Buck,” he says faintly, like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “Sam is out there.”

Bucky folds Steve up in his arms, not flinching when Steve crushes him in a fierce embrace, arms digging into his bruises, fists gripping the back of his shirt.  
The whole town. The whole godforsaken town come out to watch them hang.  
A half dozen men full of whiskey and hate they could take down in a minute. A dozen, hell, they’d still have a shot at it. But a whole town...  
“Let me go out there,” Bucky pleads. “Let me talk to them. I’ll say it was me, that I pushed you-”  
Steve grabs a handful of Bucky’s hair, twisting it in his fingers. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, pressing their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare say that about us.” He pushes his mouth against Bucky’s ear, breath hot and damp against his skin. “Don’t you leave me.”  
Bucky strokes his hands across Steve’s shoulders, grips him by the collar of his coat as if it were possible to pull him any closer. “I'm sorry,” he soothes, feeling Steve crumple against him. “I had to ask.”  
Steve shakes his head, sharp and fierce. “No, you didn't.”  
Bucky huffs under his breath. “ _Dinlo_ ,” he murmurs, his voice thick with affection.  
Rumlow starts shouting again, his voice slurred. Other voices join his, calling them out. Calling them cowards, degenerates, roaring all manner of filth and accusations. Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  
“Alright, let’s go take a look.”  
Steve loosens his grip on Bucky’s shirt, leaving the cloth warped and misshapen, loosens his grips on Bucky’s hair, letting him slip out of his grasp. Bucky slides his warm, calloused hand into Steve’s and leads the way to the front room. Steve crowds up against his back, pressing his forehead to the nape of Bucky’s neck as he peers outside. 

The whole town is gathered in a semi circle around the Smithy by the looks of it. Bucky can see prospectors, people who have brought him tools to be repaired and paid him in pieces of iron ore and scraps of metal when they had no money to offer. Maria, her repeating rifle resting on her shoulder and her clientele gathered together by one of the bonfires. Peggy and Angie, their skirts trailing in the mud, Peggy clutching her derringer while Angie holds a rifle to her hip. May and a handful of her people watch from a safe distance. Clint stands between two of the bonfires, watching Rumlow walking a circuit in front of the Smithy, taunting the Sheriff to come show his face. Behind him, Bucky can make out Natasha and her girls, neither a part of the group nor fighting it. But what could a handful of women do when up against a whole town?  
Thor lurks in the shadows. Even Abraham is there, looking troubled by the proceedings.  
And Sam, stood by the porch, the firelight reflecting off the star on his coat. Wanda and Pietro are behind him, Pietro clutching his rifle in bone white fingers.  
Bucky breathes out, slow and steady.  
“Everybody’s here,” he twists his mouth in a grimace at Steve. “You feel like talking?”

They return to the forge, and Bucky takes a moment to add charcoal to the fire, tending to the flames until he has satisfied himself that he has done everything he needs.  
Steve buckles his gunbelt and checks the chamber of each of his pistols before sliding them back into their holsters. Six rounds each. Twelve bullets. Not enough.  
He pulls on his overcoat and brushes his hands through his hair before putting on his hat. Bucky shrugs on his duster, and reaches up to the lintel over the doors to pull down a long parcel wrapped in canvas, unwrapping it to reveal a Springfield rifle and a box of cartridges. He checks the weapon over and loads it before glancing up at Steve, who is frowning at him.  
“That’s army issue,” Steve mutters.  
Bucky snorts at him. “You really want to talk about stolen property now?”  
Steve shakes his head. Bucky sets the rifle down on the table and holds out his hands.  
“ _Avveta_ ,” he murmurs.  
Steve lets Bucky straighten out his collar and cuffs, smoothing down the lapels of his coat, fingers brushing against the silver star pinned to his breast, then kisses him once, briefly, the slightest press of lips. “Ready?”  
Steve wants to shake his head. He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready. He wants to stay here, wants to live, wants to sleep in a wrought iron bed and drink bitter coffee from a tin mug. He wants to warm his hands over the forge on a cold day. He wants to sleep with his head on Bucky’s shoulder and his arm around Bucky’s waist. He wants to kiss him goodbye in the mornings and hello in the evenings. He wants to live.  
“Ready.”

They take the lantern to the front room, hang it from the rafters and move the counter away from the door in its flickering light. Outside Rumlow is still shouting for them.  
Bucky pulls the bolt back on the door and pushes. It swings open and they look out on the faces of the people of Parasapa. The bonfires are burning low, crumbling in on themselves. There is a pale blue haze over the treeline.  
Steve walks out first, boots heavy on the wooden porch. He pushes his overcoat open, revealing his silver badge and the guns on his hips. Bucky steps out after him, glaring at the people surrounding them, his rifle resting in his hands, bullets weighing down his pockets.  
Rumlow pretends to look surprised, spilling whisky onto the frozen ground.  
“Sheriff! I wasn’t sure if you were in,” he grins, sickly and wide.  
Steve surveys the crowd spread out before him, faces that had become familiar, some he had called friends.  
“What do you want, Rumlow?” Steve keeps his back straight, his head up.  
Rumlow glares at Bucky, who stares impassively back at him.  
“What do I want? Sheriff?” he asks with false cheer. “I want the same as you, I want justice.”  
There is a commotion outside the ring of flames, on the road towards Spearfish. The sound of horses and the mutter of bodies forced apart.  
Rumlow walks in a wide arc within the bonfires, holding his arms out to the people around him. “I’m here to report a crime.” He stops and waves his bottle at Steve. “Worse than a crime, an abomination. A sin, a sin so grievous it brings me shame to have to speak it in the presence of such fine ladies,” he pauses to nod at Peggy and Angie. Peggy looks nauseous and takes a step back when he gestures towards her.  
Bucky grips the barrel of his rifle, and Steve murmurs his name under his breath. Bucky loosens his grip on the weapon, but nudges their shoulders together, a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.  
“So you see, Sheriff. I’m here to do my duty as a citizen,” Rumlow puts his hand to his chest, “Though it breaks my heart to do so.”  
The commotion outside the firelight is getting louder, but Rumlow ignores it, facing the townspeople as he points to Steve. “Our dear Sheriff is a sodomite. Him and the Blacksmith are loathsome degenerates committing crimes against nature…”  
“That’s enough,” Steve snaps.  
Rumlow turns to him and grins, lopsided. “And you’re gonna hang for it.”

Bucky takes a step forward, raising his rifle. Steve grabs the barrel and pushes it down as half a dozen guns are raised up, half a dozen hammers pulled back.  
“Bucky,” Steve says softly. Bucky presses his lips together in tight, pale line and lowers the gun. The men before them slowly lower their weapons.  
“You stand accused,” Rumlow points a wavering hand to them both. “How do you plead?”  
Steve looks out at the crowd, at the silent faces watching them. He holds his head up, marking them one by one. “I love him,” he announces. “And he loves me. I don’t much care whether or not you think that’s a crime.”  
“Good boy,” Rumlow smirks, and turns back to the gang of men gathered in the circle.  
“Get plenty of rope, boys. We’ll string them up where they stand, let it be a warning to other sinners.”  
Steve clenches his jaw, his hands balling into fists. He feels numb, feels cold, like he has left the world far behind him. There is a touch of warmth in his hand, curling around his fist, feels Bucky’s fingers tangling with his own. Feels alive.  
“Twelve bullets,” Bucky murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. “If we go down, we go down swinging, yeah?”  
Steve squeezes at the hand pressed to his own. “Yeah.”

Rumlow takes the coil of rope handed to him and tugs it experimentally. He takes a step towards the Smithy, finding his way blocked by Sam.  
“Out of my way, Wilson,” Rumlow growls.  
Sam shakes his head. “No.”  
Rumlow raises his pistol, levels it a hand's breadth from Sam's calm features. Wanda and Pietro shoulder their guns, pointing them at Rumlow. There is the clicking of hammers in a susurration around the fires, as the townspeople, one by one, raise their weapons and point them at the road agents.  
Rumlow swallows and lowers his gun, makes a show of holstering it in front of the crowd and holding his hands up, empty and twitching. He flinches at the sound of a horse’s hooves, at raised voices at the edge of the firelight. “They committed a crime,” Rumlow says slowly. “They gotta pay.”  
Sam shrugs. “What crime? There’s no jurisdiction here, there’s no law in Parasapa,” Sam tilts his head. “Don’t you know that?’  
There is a shout and a man on horseback, a red poncho over his shoulders, bursts through the circle of bonfires, circling his horse and drawing his gun.  
Rumlow steps back and his eyes fall on Abraham.  
“Preacher,” he calls out, pleading. “The bibles got something to say about sodomy.”  
Abraham nods grudgingly. “Not especially. It has a lot to say about murder.”  
Rumlow hisses, turning away. “They’re perverts.”  
Clint shrugs, his hunting bow raised, an arrow knocked to the string and drawn back. “Yeah, but they’re our perverts.”  
Rumlow fumbles for his gun, tugging it out from it’s holster and turning to the Sheriff. There is a movement in the corner of his eye, a flutter of red and a crack, echoing around the buildings.  
Rumlow blinks, drops his gun. He lifts his hand to touch his eye and his fingers come away wet and red. He frowns and pokes at the hole where his eye should have been, and crumbles to the ground.

Rollins recovers first, raising his pistol and aiming it at the Sheriff. Bucky is faster, putting the first bullet between his eyes. By the time his body hits the ground, the remaining road agents are dead.  
Sam clears his throat. “Alright people, stand down.” There is a ripple of movement as the townspeople do as he asks, even the vaquero on his horse, who shoves his gun back in its holster and dismounts, pushing past Sam to get to the porch and the two men standing there.  
“Luis?” Steve mutters as the cowboy barrels into him, throwing an arm around his shoulder.  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve! We saw the fires up on the hill. Thought the whole town was going up in smoke.” Luis wraps his other arm around Bucky, crushing them both.  
“Ow,” Bucky grumbles as his bruises get knocked.  
“Sorry man, what happened to your face?” Luis turns to Steve and thumps him on the chest. “And what the fuck is wrong with you, _hombre_? You just gonna let them kill you both?”  
“The whole town was here…” Steve rubs at his sternum where Luis hit him. The man has a mean punch.  
“ _Estás loco de mierda_ ,” Luis snaps. “You been Sheriff for what, six months now? You looked after these people all that time, they got your back, you should know this.”  
Luis turns to Bucky, prodding at his bruises. “Your man has not been taking care of you.”  
Bucky snorts. “Good to see you, Luis.” Then he catches up with what Luis has actually said. “You heard.”  
Luis laughs and gives Bucky’s scabbed eyebrow a last poke. “Heard? Nah, already knew.”  
Steve stops rubbing his chest. “What?”  
“Known for months,” Luis gives Bucky a worried look. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”  
Bucky makes an odd, incredulous sound. Luis raises his eyebrows. “You guys are terrible liars, I known about it since you started wearing that thing.” Luis taps the silver star on Steve’s coat.  
“Smallpox,” Clint offers, retrieving his arrow from one of the dead road agents. Natasha nods in agreement, giving Steve a knowing smirk. There is a murmur of assent around the camp.  
Bucky frowns. “We weren’t…” he says faintly.  
Steve reaches down to take his hand, linking their fingers together. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We were.”

Sam organises men to take the bodies up to the cemetery and get to work digging graves in the early morning light. Abraham offers to perform a funeral, should anyone wish to attend.  
“All of us are equal in the eyes of God,” he reminds them. Sam accepts the offer, but warns that the only people attending will be there to make sure they’re well and truly buried, rather than to make peace.  
The stallholders start to salvage what they can, and by the time the bodies are cleared the town is filled with the sound of hammer on nail as construction gets underway.  
Luis mounts his dapple grey mare and makes his way back up the hill, where Scott and their wagon is waiting. The folk not on gravedigging duty are out in the hills, chopping down saplings to build with and gathering firewood.  
Steve watches the crowd slowly disperse as the sun rises over the camp. He sees a flash of red, and pointedly wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist. Bucky doesn’t question him, just curls an arm around Steve’s shoulder in return. He follows Steve’s gaze and doesn’t hide a smirk.  
Pierce stands on the far side of the road, watching the proceedings. He takes a step back when a cart, loaded with the dead, passes him, the wheels churning up mud and spattering his clothes. Steve meets his eye, and slowly raises two fingers to the brim of his hat. Bucky snorts as Pierce abruptly turns and walks away.

Steve lets Bucky lead him to the bench on their front porch, taking a moment to sit while everything happens around them. They lean into each other, exhausted and restless.  
The townspeople give them space, and they sit in silence, breathing in each others air as they slowly curl around each other. Steve slides his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, leaning closer as Bucky rubs unsteady fingers through his beard.  
In a minute they will get up, and join the work to rebuild.  
After that, there is wood to gather and a paddock to repair, maybe extend a little, room enough for two.  
“Sheriff?”  
Steve blinks, and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Yes, Sam?”  
“I’m going down to the Jailhouse to fill in a report, record the events of the night.”  
Steve feels Bucky freeze against him, and briefly tightens his grip around his shoulders. “Okay.”  
Sam nods. “A group of road agents came into town in the night, did damage to some property. The townspeople rallied, and had them surrounded,” Sam gives Steve a pointed look and he nods, chastened. “However they resisted arrest, and died in the subsequent firefight. Aside from some minor injuries that the Doc has been taking care of, there have been no other casualties.”  
“Is that everything?” Steve asks quietly.  
“Everything that matters.”  
“Okay. Thank you Sam.”  
Sam glances over at Bucky. “You two should get some rest. We’ll take care of things out here.”  
Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky doesn’t give him a chance.  
“Yeah. Give us a couple of hours?” he says, his voice rough.  
“I’ll send someone over,” Sam grins at him. “Make him get some sleep though.”  
Bucky rolls his eyes. “As if I can make him do anything.”  
“I’m sat right here, y’know,” Steve mutters.

Bucky gets to his feet. “C’mon,” he murmurs, his expression open and unguarded. It’s a rare sight, and Steve hopes to see it more often.  
Steve follows as Bucky leads the way through the front door, taking the lantern down from the rafters and swinging it in his free hand, lighting the way as they past the dull orange glow of the forge.  
It casts its soft amber light across the bed as they kick off their boots and pulls off their coats, letting them drop to the floor as Bucky pulls Steve onto the mattress, dragging the tangled blankets over them.  
They wrap around each other, their limbs entwined. Steve buries his fingers in long, dark hair, presses his face to Bucky’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of him, leather and charcoal and cinder, of home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rosenscott & Luistern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926081) by [krycekasks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krycekasks/pseuds/krycekasks)




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